by Gary Crew
‘Yeah?’ Stan demanded. ‘Fer how long?’
Augustus paled. ‘Where would I go?’ he whispered. ‘Where else would I be?’
Stan stood, his arms wrapped about his chest, to walk down the path. He reached the gate, stopped, looked out, and turned back. He looked towards the steps, raising his eyes to Augustus, crouched there, miserable. ‘You’d be out there,’ he said, pointing. ‘In that shed. With her. With Rosa, and him.’
Augustus hung his head.
‘You think I’m stupid?’ Stan demanded. ‘You think I’m some idiot? You and your tricky friends. You and your silver sheds and incense. I know. I seen. Worse, I feel,’ and he sighed, looking down, grinding his heel into the paving, crazy as it was. ‘I left the mine, okay? I quit. I hired that horse. I been goin’ out there, out Helidon, lookin’ for work, for a place. Cause I know you’re goin’. You and her. Movin’ in with him. So I want me own place out there. Near you. Always. Okay?’ And he turned to the gate, to stare over again, since he could not look back for tears.
‘Stan,’ Augustus called from the stairs, his voice low.
Stan refused, at first, then turned.
‘Stan,’ Augustus said, standing. ‘You are right, but you are wrong. She did ask, yes. But I said no. I would rather be with you. I told her that.’
The man looked at him, shaking his head, overcome. He stumbled forward to fall to his knees. ‘I got no-one,’ he mumbled through his tears. ‘I got no-one. Some mongrel took my Hogie, and I thought I lost you. I got no-one, see?’
‘But you have,’ Augustus assured. ‘But you have. I said no, I promise.’ And he gave Stan a kiss, because that was right.
When they had settled, wiped their faces, blown their noses and made some silly remarks about being so silly, then contradicted themselves, they sat.
‘So what’s she doin’?’ Stan wanted to know. ‘She is goin’, ain’t she?’
‘So she told me, when she asked me.’
‘Yeah? When?’
Augustus shrugged. ‘I don’t know. She never said.’
‘You seen her packin’?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe he said no.’
‘Maybe, but I doubt it. Not after the whispering and love talk I heard through the hessian at the shed.’
‘Hmmm …’
‘And you?’ Augustus asked. ‘Did you really chuck your job down pit?’
‘I did,’ Stan nodded. ‘I had enough, anyway. That dirt and them canaries. I want a job outside. In the wind, the sun, the rain even. I been in the dark too long.’
‘And you’ve really been looking? Out Helidon way?’
‘I told ya that.’
‘And?’
‘I seen some blokes on the land like. Some stone cutters too. That sandstone. But …’ he shrugged, ‘I’m seein’ a certain Father Brown on Wensdy.’
‘Farmer Brown?’
‘No, Father. Least that’s what the ad said. Wants a labourer, he does.’
‘Got land, has he?’
‘Dunno. I’ll have a look. I got the horse booked for the day.’
‘And the trap,’ Augustus chirped, ‘since I’m coming too.’
So they laughed, and went in.
The horse trotted passed the Helidon pub and the colonial shops and the camphor laurels until Stan said, ‘Call me stupid, but I reckon we missed that Father Brown’s place. Here, have a look …’ He took off his straw hat and from inside produced a newspaper clipping. ‘Read that,’ he said, thrusting it at Augustus.
‘“Labourer wanted”,’ Augustus read. ‘“Apply Father Brown, The Hedges, Helidon”.’ Hardly had he finished when he cried, ‘There’s the sign, Stan. Turn left!’
When Stan did, they knew they had arrived.
To their right, a six-foot privet hedge ran the length of the road, thick and impenetrable. The horse trotted alongside it for a good three-quarters of a mile until, abruptly, the green stopped and a wrought-iron gate (all gorgeously got up in ecclesiastical brass) made an appearance bearing a sign: ‘The Hedges’.
Augustus slipped from the trap to push.
The gate yawned.
Before them burst a rejoicing of hollyhocks; of lavender and lupin, of pink and purple, of lattice and trellis and dovecote and fountain and somewhere a bird trilled – was it a nightingale? Surely no bush bird – and there, nestled snug as a teapot on a doily, a delightful stone cottage.
‘The Hedges,’ Augustus informed Stan, since it had to be.
So the front door, as blue as heaven, opened and a crooked man appeared, calling ‘Hello. Hello. I am Father Brown,’ extending his right hand to greet.
‘Stan Platten,’ Stan muttered, threatened. ‘This here’s me mate, Augustus.’
Father Brown was spindly all over, Augustus could tell, his stovepipe trousers being no disguise, but his eyes were bright (blue as his front door), and for all of his miserable body, he lacked no well-being. ‘Come in,’ he encouraged, ‘do come in. I will make tea. Hello. Hello. Do come in.’
Stan hesitated, distrusting enthusiasm overly demonstrated. ‘Aw,’ he said, acting dopey. ‘All right.’
But once in the parlour, he changed. Once in the parlour, amid the chintz, gawping, he beamed big and broad. ‘This is the same as me mum’s place,’ he declared. ‘Just like hers.’
‘Really?’ the Father wondered. ‘How lovely. Really? Lovely.’
‘Yairs,’ Stan confirmed. ‘Yairs. All second-hand, y’know. All of it. We had nothin’. Nothin’. All of it second-hand. But clean.’
‘Lovely. Just lovely,’ Father Brown nodded, boiling the kettle. ‘Lovely and clean, I’m sure.’
‘But all gone now,’ Stan assured him, lapsing into a sudden melancholy. ‘All gone, yairs …’
‘Oh dear,’ the Father worried, pouring. ‘All gone? All? A fire was there? A flood? Dear me. Oh dear …’ He wrapped his skinny fingers about the pot, mothering.
‘Nope,’ Stan declared. ‘The booze, eh.’
‘And this is your cottage?’ Augustus asked, anxious to distract.
‘Yes,’ the Father replied, ‘and no. It is the property of the church, you understand. It belongs to the church. I serve as vicar. In Helidon. Or did. Yes, the church. Milk for you both? And sugar? Hmmm?’
‘Did?’ Augustus asked. ‘Surely you are … Your title. Your collar?’
‘Sit,’ the Father invited. ‘Please. Sit.’
They sat, the pot steaming, the crockery clinking, the cutlery clattering and Stan despondent.
But Augustus would have none of it. ‘Did?’ he said. ‘Surely …?’
‘Ah,’ the Father sighed, stirring. ‘This place is too much for me. And since I’ve lost Patrick …’
‘Patrick?’ Augustus asked, sipping.
‘My helper. My man. Patrick. Gone. Passed on. So I must too. I am off to see the Holy Father. In Rome. Personally, you understand. If the church allows. Or asks. This has become too much. So I advertised. The church will pay. Indeed. The church will pay.’
‘You have lost your helper?’
‘Patrick. Yes. So I will go. But the cottage will be free. If you want it, Mr Platting …’
‘Platten,’ Augustus corrected.
The Father hurried on. ‘If you want the job, I mean. And the cottage. And you, young man. You too? Do you?’
Stan said nothing, but Augustus gaped. This cottage? This garden? This paradise? ‘All this?’ he said. ‘We could have all of this?’
‘Not have,’ the Father corrected, ‘since it is the church’s. But to live in. To maintain. To labour. Yes …’
Which is when Augustus saw the piano (his mother’s, was it?). An ancient upright, open, revealing sheet music scattered on the yellowing keyboard, and turning he said, ‘Do you play, Father?’
‘No, no,’ the Father chuckled. ‘Miss Bloomfield does, you understand.’
‘Who is Miss Bloomfield?’
‘Oh, Miss Bloomfield cleans the house. Miss Bloomfield cooks. Miss Bloomfield washes. Miss Bloomfie
ld does, you understand.’
‘Ah,’ Augustus paused beside the piano, his fingers straying over the keys. ‘You are saying that Miss Bloomfield is the housekeeper?’
‘Yes. The housekeeper.’
‘Does she live here?’
‘Oh no. Miss Bloomfield lives in Helidon. In the town. By the stables.’
‘But you pay her to look after this cottage?’
‘No. The church pays Miss Bloomfield to look after the place.’
‘And she comes in daily to cook for you?’
‘No, no. You misunderstand. No. No. I don’t live here. I live in the vicarage. In the glebe. In the grounds of the church. In the town. Behind the laurels. The glebe. You must have missed it. Patrick Bloomfield lived here. Miss Bloomfield’s brother. He was my worker. But he is gone. Passed on. Out there, you see?’ and he swung a spidery hand in the direction of the back garden, glimpsed beyond the windows.
‘Out there?’ Stan asked, waking as from a sleep.
‘Behind the hedge,’ the Father declared. ‘The Hedges is private, you know. For the faithful only. Consecrated ground, you understand. I do hope that you will respect that if you labour here, Mr Plodding.’
‘Platten,’ Augustus corrected.
The Father ignored him. ‘If you dig, so to speak,’ and he opened the kitchen door to reveal the back garden – the lavender and lupin, the pink and purple – and the cemetery beyond.
‘Would you?’ Augustus asked as they trotted by the Helidon pub and the colonial shops and the laurels and the vicarage. ‘Would you be a gravedigger?’
‘It’s a good job,’ Stan conceded. ‘With the house and the housekeeper, and it’s workin’ outside, and that garden. Never had a garden. Never grew a flower. Nice, eh? And you can stay; there’s a bedroom for you, the Father said. So there’s you. Yeah, when a bloke thinks about it, it’s a real good job.’
‘But once Rosa goes, we could stay where we are at Booval,’ Augustus suggested. ‘We don’t have to live at Helidon. We could stay at Booval.’
Stan reined the horse in. ‘No,’ he said, determined. ‘I ain’t goin’ down pit agin. Not ever. I ain’t gunna die down there, all black and bloody like that Blue Butterfly’s man. This gravedigger job will be good, I reckon.’
In the days (or weeks or months) that followed, Rosa left to be with Da Silva, so Stan bought the horse and trap, naming the animal ‘Useful’ because it was, and having loaded the little that they owned, he and Augustus set out.
Miss Bloomfield was at the sky-blue door when they arrived. ‘Tea?’ she called. ‘I’ve just put it on.’
‘Yes, please,’ Augustus replied, and leaving Stan to unload (being next to useless himself), he went inside to perch on a floral chair, ready to chat; but first, to look, since Miss Bloomfield appeared interesting.
She was gaunt, Miss Bloomfield, her body a breadstick, her limbs pretzels, though why he configured her in pastry, he could not imagine, considering her lack of bulk. Is it the graveyard? Augustus wondered, recalling the Father being the same. She is a pretzel, yes, that could snap … Is it the proximity of the dead that makes them so thin? So he watched, wondering.
‘And what is your name?’ she enquired, pouring.
‘My name is Augustus Trump,’ he replied.
‘And how old are you, Augustus?’
‘I am eighteen, going on nineteen. Although sometimes I forget. My life has been so strange.’ And he steeled himself for the inevitable.
‘You are small for nineteen,’ she said, on cue.
Having expected this, he answered fully. ‘But I will grow. Through song. The perfection of which will reconstruct me. My attainment of the sublime. Then I will become a tall man. A broad man. A normal man. Of that I am certain. Or hope …’ Having said a mouthful, he stared into his tea, which was served.
‘Well, well,’ she sighed, perching on the chair opposite, her teacup precarious on those pointy knees. ‘Just goes to show, doesn’t it? My brother, Patrick, rest his soul, didn’t grow either. Much like yourself, at first, I imagine. Tiny he was, although maybe a bit taller, even considerable, now I look at you …’ Augustus took this as fair comment, considering his sustained observations of herself. ‘But Mother put him on to liquorice. Thick as razor strops. And black! Black! And he grew. Like mad. Shot straight up. Must have been six foot at your age. A veritable beanstalk, I’d say. He did all right too. Being a gravedigger and all. For the parish. Rest his soul. For the Father …’
‘Interesting,’ Augustus responded, sotto-voiced. Yet he was struck by her allusion to vegetables; beans being appropriate, no doubt, but celery also, and other stalky stuff. Yes, he thought, she is right. The vegetable is more suited to her physical construction than any reference to bread; dough, especially, and drawing himself back into the conversation he said, ‘Remarkable, even. But speaking of the Father, he mentioned that you play. Do you play the pianoforte, Miss Bloomfield?’
‘Indeed I do,’ she chortled. ‘All the old favourites,’ and having placed her teacup on the occasional table beside her, casually, even graciously, she held out her hands.
‘Oh!’ he gasped. ‘Oh!’
Her fingers conjured images of a label he had seen years ago on a skinny tin down the back of the grocer’s at Goodna. Strange, he thought, how that memory remained, and he recalled the stalks of yellow asparagus pictured there. Was there such a thing as yellow asparagus, or was it just that ancient label, fading? But now, as he stared, he noted that her fingers were not yellow, and certainly not asparagus, but ivory, and a dreadful fear came over him. These were the fingers of a pianist, not his mother’s exactly, but fearfully similar, itching to play, and he sank back, anticipating. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘I didn’t mean … It’s just that … I thought … if you were to play, then I might sing – I would sing, I know – and if I sang, I wonder, am I ready?’
‘Ready?’ she asked. ‘For what?’
‘To grow,’ he muttered. ‘Ah! Here is Stan, with my things …’ And he leapt up, grateful.
That evening, when Miss Bloomfield had left for the day and Stan unpacked, Augustus sat on his bed, alone.
What is happening to me? he wondered. Why have I so constructed her? Why vegetables, I wonder. How mad is that? And how can I bear her, every day, with those long thin fingers, itching to play? And if she does, which she will, and I sing, then the change will come, the reconstruction of myself. And what if I’m not ready? What if I give too much and sing myself hoarse and fail to grow. Because she will play, I know that she will, as my mother did, and I will sing. I will sing myself stupid, and the sublime, who knows? What if I sing myself out? What if I break my voice? Oh dear. Oh dear. Stan or no Stan, I should have gone with Rosa. Oh dear …
So he sighed and fretted, yet placing his palm against the wall to steady himself, a certain security came over him, a certain solidarity, a certain sense of safety. He turned to look. This house is built of stone, he realised. I had not thought. And he touched again, moving his palm, sensing, caressing. I have never lived in a stone house. Even that big white house, my mother’s house, was timber. And Miss la Vie’s … He raised his other hand, to place it beside the first, moving them freely, savouring the strength. And catching himself smiling, he leaned forward to press his pale forehead against the stone, then his mouth, and soon he kissed, his lips brushing, and drew back to see. ‘Sandstone,’ he whispered. ‘I am certain. Perhaps I should stay, since she comes from sandstone, with her spring, with her finches …’ So he sank onto the pillow to sleep.
When he woke, and bathed, he walked in the garden relieved, having no desire for Melba or Caruso, not so much as a bar, vowing that he would be wary of Miss Bloomfield and her ivory hands.
In the days that followed, the weeks, the months (or was it a year?), Augustus fell silent, choosing to wander in the cemetery with Stan. He rarely saw Miss Bloomfield, nor did he choose to sit, sipping tea, which was her favourite pastime, and soon she slipped from his mind, if not his me
mory, entirely.
Being outside with Stan, he came to love the sandy red of the slab, of the headstone cast down, of the cenotaph fallen, sometimes even the columns, because they toppled too, in storms, washouts and frost, cracking sharp in winter; the sandstone so brittle.
He especially liked walking among the graven images of angels and cherubs, of saints and sinners, of sheep and lambs and dogs and birds and flowers and columns and crosses (Christian, crooked, leaning, wreathed); and the sculptures that dotted this deathly landscape that had once been something, but were no more, being eroded, chipped, amputated or otherwise vandalised.
All of sandstone they were. And sometimes – not often – should Stan look away, or disappear into a pit, digging, six feet down, Augustus might stoop to feel that stone upon his lips, bending to kiss, and he began to wonder, Why am I doing this? What is it about this sandstone that attracts me?
Though Augustus denied that it might be Sylvie, the finch girl – born of the sandstone spring – who caused him to pine, he could not stop thinking of her. These thoughts were worst when Rosa and Da Silva visited, which they often did, but every time he saw them – especially Da Silva with his silvery hair – he was reminded of her and, try as he might, he could not put her from his mind, wondering what might have been. Had he not been made like this, had he been built like any other man, might she come back? To him, for him? But to hive up such feelings was ridiculous, he being a dwarf and she being so lovely, and he closed them down, thinking of other things.
There was a lamb that he particularly liked. A little sandstone lamb, its feet tucked under, its head raised, its eyes staring heavenwards, and the lines, graven beneath,
Roger Owens.
3 years.
Lent to us for a while.
As he passed, Augustus might stroke the lamb’s nose, since it was low and Roger was little too, he knew.
A truncated column also appealed to him, and he stopped every time he passed. This column stood on a rectangular plinth, perhaps three feet high, so it was harder to inspect, let alone touch, but if Stan had taken a bucket, Augustus would upturn it and standing on tiptoe, take a better look, even touch. He liked this column because it had a photograph set into the plinth, under glass, although the glass was cracked and the image beneath ruined. This was a war grave, though not really, since it said that the boy whose life it celebrated had died ‘over there’, and Stan said there was no chance his body would have been brought back. ‘Buried over there, he’d be,’ Stan said. ‘Under the mud, I reckon, like the rest of ’em. Just kids, eh. Kids …’ and he would leave Augustus to wonder and stroke the stony wreath. I bet he was tall, Augustus thought. Gangly, like Stan. Which set him wondering, Why didn’t Stan go; though he never dared ask.