Day Boy

by Trent Jamieson

  ‘How was it?’ Anne calls out into the dark.

  I stand there still.

  ‘Mark, you tell me. How was it?’ Her voice has an edge to it.

  ‘Good,’ I call back.

  ‘Just good?’ Now it’s sharper still, and I’m wincing; there’s worse hurts than the flesh.

  ‘It was near as perfect as a thing might be.’

  Anne laughs. ‘I’ve missed you,’ she says. ‘Now home with you. Before trouble comes and gets you for good.’

  It already has, I reckon. Found my heart and given it a serious squeeze. I’m too full of feeling to be a ghost.

  Almost run straight into Twitch as I walk onto the road.

  ‘Mark,’ he says, seeming all casual.

  ‘What you doing, Twitch?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he says, looking at his feet.

  ‘What, you lurking or something?’

  ‘I’d never,’ he says, but I can see his face glowing even now.

  ‘You be on your way,’ I say. ‘You be on your way.’

  And he runs out into the dark, and I can hear Anne laughing.

  CHAPTER 31

  IT TAKES A good three weeks before I feel like I am not skin and bone and that my muscles have more than a memory of their strength, and by then winter’s here, pressing cold fingers against the edge of the earth.

  But cold don’t matter so much when you’re working hard and I’m sweating over firewood. Thom can’t lift this axe—some weight you can’t finesse no matter how hard-raised you are—so I don’t have no choice, the wound’s pulling on my arm, and there’s an ache in my chest, and the taste of snot in my throat. But I don’t mind, labour has its pleasure; just wish I could breathe easier. I take a big hocking spit.

  ‘Delightful,’ says Anne from behind me and I turn, trying not to stumble beneath the down-earth-weight of the axe. Anne’s bundled up. And standing still I can feel the cold too, feel it starting to slip in, like it always does this time of year. But there’s another heat at the heart of me.

  ‘This is sweating, spitting work,’ I say, and lean a bit heavier on the handle of that axe, feel it sink into the earth, and try to hide my heavy breathing.

  ‘Looks like it,’ Anne says.

  Slow breaths. Deep and slow breaths.

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Mary said to invite you and your Master over for dinner. And Mr Thom of course.’ He dips his cap.

  ‘I’ll pass on the invite. Once he’s awake and all.’ The sky’s already heading towards dim, the little Sun’s tracking its way into the west. A grey cloud passes over it, and things get a bit colder. No more sensitive a season than winter. Always ready to pull a shift on you.

  ‘It’s tonight,’ she says.

  ‘Short notice, but I’ll pass it on. Can’t be tapping on his coffin and all, they don’t like that.’ I’m leaning harder on that axe, and the cold is filling me, gonna be shivering soon. Hate that I look so weak in front of her.

  ‘Best get back to that wood,’ Anne says, and leaves me to it. I swing the axe over my head, glad I can lift it. Was a time, not more than two weeks back, when I thought I’d never be able to lift it again.

  ‘You could’ve told me she was there,’ I say.

  Thom just grins.

  I swing and split another log. Thom sets another one down, and I swing and split that too.

  ‘How many more have we got? Can’t you at least tell me that, Mr Thom?’

  Thom shrugs, and smiles.

  There’s nothing gentle for a sick man in this town, not even amongst his own kind.

  Dain must be curious. He dips his head when I give him the invite, then gestures at me and Thom. Hardly a second’s thought to it. Though I can see a bit of disappointment. I suppose he wanted to work on his book tonight. Books exert their own pressure.

  ‘Best draw yourselves a bath,’ Dain says, ‘and get your Sunday best. If we’re going out for dinner tonight I want no scruffiness.’

  ‘You really want to?’ I say, half not-believing it. Just as I’m excited to be seeing Anne.

  ‘And why shouldn’t I?’

  ‘At least we’ll get one night of good eating,’ Thom says.

  I swing at his head, but he’s already out of the way. Too quick by far, that smug bugger.

  The damn collar’s prickling me. Sunday best doesn’t get much of an airing even on Sundays.

  Clothes as stiff and starched as possible. Can’t blame anyone but myself for that, though Dain could have taught me better, I suppose. Thom looks like he was born to good clothes, barely scratches at his neck, seems capable of breathing. Twice Dain slaps my hand away from fiddling with my collar and tie.

  ‘You’re done, boy,’ he says. ‘You’re presentable so don’t mess it up.’

  Thom smirks at me from beneath that neat part in his hair. My hair’s a state, won’t straighten, sticks up in the back, looks like I’ve just got out of bed. He was the one that knotted my tie and he pulled it too tight. Got a knot in my gut, too.

  Dain looks at his watch.

  ‘We are late.’

  We pass Egan on the way to Mary’s.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he says. Eyes like embers.

  ‘Stephen,’ says Dain.

  I want to smirk at him, to do a little dance. I’m getting what I deserve. A nice meal, a walk in the dark.

  ‘And where are you going on this fine night?’

  ‘None of your—’

  Dain slaps the back of my head. ‘Mary Harris has requested our company this evening.’

  Egan dips his head, glares at me. ‘Please give Ms Harris my regards, will you, boy?’

  There’s nothing nice in those regards. He stares at me like the wolf in whatever fairy story you’d like, take your pick, charming as a knife in the belly.

  ‘I will, sir,’ I say after a pause that’s awkward enough, I reckon.

  ‘See that you do.’

  He nods at the three of us then strolls into the dark.

  ‘Man looked hungry,’ I said.

  ‘You know he was,’ Dain says, sharp. ‘Winter’s settled in. We’re all a little hungrier.’

  Dain once said that winter pulls the hunger through their hearts. Night growing, the sky clear. Winter’s the secret time of them.

  A wind picks up and follows us through the streets, puffs up our shadows, thins the crescent moon to a cutting edge. Dain’s eyes are brighter than the moon, and twice as sharp. Thom whistles a little melody, clear in that cool night, but Dain hushes him.

  We’re almost sombre by the time we reach Mary’s house. It’s lit up, and warm and Anne greets us at the door. Light and the smell of good things cooking rushing out through that door at us. Her gaze flicks from Dain to me and Thom and she smiles—I can see the mock in it if no one else does.

  ‘Welcome, fine folk,’ she says, and curtseys.

  ‘May we have the pleasure of the house?’ Dain asks.
Say what you will of me, but my Master knows formalities.

  ‘You may,’ says Anne, and we pass in. Me at the rear, and I get a hard kick from Anne.

  ‘You look like all kinds of awkward,’ she says, her voice low. ‘Well-dressed awkward, but definitely awkward.’

  ‘Did you say something?’ Dain asks.

  ‘Said how nice you all are.’

  ‘The boys scrub up well,’ Dain says. ‘Now where is your ma?’

  ‘In the kitchen,’ Mary yells. ‘No meal I’ve ever known cooks itself. You get to the parlour. I’ll be along.’

  So we sit in the parlour. There’s a piano in one corner.

  ‘How’s your playin’ going?’ I ask.

  ‘All right,’ Anne says. ‘You should know.’

  Dain smiles at her. ‘Would you play for us now?’

  Anne’s dressed in her finest too. She rubs her nose. ‘If you’d like, I can.’

  ‘I would like that very much.’

  And she plays that beautiful sound. The Cat and the Fiddle Dance, The Slow Maiden’s Grief, and then some of the oldest music. She plays and her face is calm, like she isn’t breaking a sweat, like this is easy and she looks…she looks transported. Skill and happiness, and delight, that’s what I’m hearing. And I get a little sad. I’ll never be worthy of this, not one bit.

  Mary joins us part-way through, and she listens and we listen, and when Anne is finished, and the world is just the world again, and my neck’s back to itching in that collar, all of us clap.

  ‘Very good, Miss Harris,’ Dain says. ‘Thank you.’

  Anne looks flushed, a little flustered, nothing like the music that she’s just played, she’s back with us now, back and vulnerable. ‘You’re welcome,’ she says.

  ‘My girl’s a talent, all right,’ Mary says, and then she shoos us into the dining room, our feet creaking and clattering on the wooden floors. ‘There’s plenty of food,’ she says. ‘Hope you boys are hungry.’

  And there is meat, and potatoes and peas and pumpkin. And a thick gravy. ‘Nice to have someone cook for a change, don’t you say boys?’ Dain says.

  ‘Nice don’t even begin to—’

  ‘Don’t talk with your mouth full,’ Dain says.

  Anne coughs into her hand, to hide what is an obvious laugh.

  ‘I’m an easy guest,’ says Dain. ‘I don’t eat.’

  Mary tilts her head. ‘Oh, I’ve catered for you.’

  Dain raises his hand, but still bares his teeth. ‘Later, perhaps.’

  Anne don’t say nothing at that, but I see her grip her knife tighter than she needs to. Dain’s more often gentle than most, but that don’t mean anything for those times he’s not. And these cold months where the night is long and the day threaded with weakness, he and the others are wilder than ever.

  When we’re done with second helpings, and dessert and second helpings of that, we’re back in the parlour, plump and worn out from eating.

  Mary looks to me and Thom. ‘Now boys, would you mind taking a slow walk of the block? And you too, Anne.’

  Anne hesitates.

  ‘I’ve things of a private nature to discuss with your Master here.’

  ‘We won’t be long,’ Dain says.

  So that is how we end up back in the cold, walking with Anne. We take Main Street, and reach the park. There’s old metal swings in here, and Anne sits down in one of those seats, her legs dangling. I’m rubbing my full belly. Thom is looking up at the stars.

  ‘You can certainly play the piano,’ Thom says. ‘They prize that sort of thing in the city.’

  ‘Do they now?’ Anne says, tilting her head, giving him all her attention. And I can see the soft mockery in that gaze, but it makes me jealous nonetheless. Why can’t I enjoy the sight of her, the lines and fierceness of her eyes when they’re not set on me? I’m a fool, that’s why.

  Thom nods, all earnest. ‘Music is the highest of human endeavour.’

  ‘And why’s that?’ I ask.

  ‘It’s pure emotion. The Masters like to be reminded they can feel.’

  Anne laughs, clear into the sky.

  Thom looks at her. ‘Why is that funny? I don’t understand.’

  ‘You will,’ she says. ‘One day you will.’

  ‘Why can’t you tell me now?’

  ‘Because the world thinks otherwise.’

  The moon’s slinging into the west and a dog starts howling.

  ‘Maybe we should get back,’ Anne says.

  Mary’s wearing a scarf when we return, and she’s paler than ever. Dain’s eyes are dark and narrow, though his skin is flushed with new life. He looks at me then Anne. There’s something sad and furtive in that look, something almost ashamed.

  ‘We must be going,’ he says. And we give our farewells.

  Dain walks us to the front gate. Something cries out into the dark, loud and on the edge of town; there’s a sharp whistle, and Dain turns his head towards the sound, then back to us.

  ‘I expect you to head straight home. The linen needs cleaning tomorrow, and the blankets,’ he says then he is gone into the dark. No writing for him tonight.

  Never any rest for the wicked.

  The Masters rule the town, no doubt, but they aren’t the town, and they know it, and what kind of kingdom is that, when most of the world’s sleeping? Their times of weakness and strength are the reverse of our own. They rule our waking world, but from a distance. Some folks say that they don’t rule nothing but the dark, and we’ve never wanted that.

  That’s a dangerous sort of thinking.

  Night is always coming.

  CHAPTER 32

  IT IS ANOTHER cold night deeper into winter when I wake Thom. He blinks at me, and I feel a little poor for him. Been a busy day cleaning the Sewills’ yard—we’d marked the door the day earlier—and that’s always hard labour, they let us do the work. Those Sewills are getting on, about the oldest couple in this town. Both of us are sore and weary. But this evening’s not one for sleep, it’s a night for other things. The moon’s where it should be, and I can feel it.

  Thom raises a feeble hand, like he’s never been woken before; almost makes me feel sorry for him.

  ‘You best get used to waking in the middle of the night,’ I say.

  His lips curl solemn, and he gives me a sort of look that’s all hardness. ‘I’m used to it.’ And he’s up and on the edge of the bed. ‘What needs doing?’

  I shake my head. ‘Not what needs doing but seeing. Dress warm.’

  I’m all ready to go. Which is mean of me, I guess. It’s so I can glower and mutter at his slow dressing, but we’ve plenty of time.

  We open the door onto the night and it draws us out, like a true night will, as though we’re nothing but dust lifted on the wind.

  It’s bitter cold, and a sky so clear that the stars burn. Breath steams from us, and no matter that we’re dressed warm, it’s still a shock, like jumping into water that’s colder than you expected. The moon’s a s
liver in the sky, but everything is so clear. Land looms around us blue and hulking, drawing in and receding, and you suddenly get a sense of how big everything is and how little you are, but it’s still wonderful, because small and brief you’re still here and breathing plumes in the dark: defiant and proud. And there is no one more defiant than us.

  I can’t help it: despite everything, I start humming. I shouldn’t, but I do. Not everything is a should: some things are a must.

  ‘Why you so cheerful?’ Thom asks.

  ‘It’s night. It’s night and we’re alive!’

  ‘You’re crazy,’ Thom says, but I can hear the joy in his voice, and I know he understands, a night like this you can’t help but.

  We leave our yard, by the back way, jumping the fence and following a path marked by roos and strengthened by the boys that have followed it, boots hardening the earth. It runs up into the ridge. But we’re not heading that way.

  We walk in the dark, but it’s not so dark when your eyes adjust. Something crashes away through the undergrowth; roo or razorback, though they stink to high hell and this don’t smell of anything, and the cold air’s too clear, and a boar’s usually too smart to come this close to a town.

  About half an hour of walking, and I turn to Thom.

  ‘Now, you must be quiet,’ I say.

  Thom starts to say something, and I shoosh him good.

  ‘Silence and we live. Noise and…we may not.’

  Thom looks at me. And I wave my hand in the dark. ‘But what a night to die!’ I say.

  A little further on we start to hear it. At first it’s nothing more than a faint low sound, but it’s the thread that we follow and it thickens as we approach.

  Singing.

  Pure and wild song.

  A couple of the other boys are in sight, Dougie and Twitcher, and I nod to them.

  We clamber over a rise, and then another.

  And there’s light as well as song, and I’m gesturing to Thom to get on his belly. That last rise we crawl up. And there they are.