All the Green Year

by Don Charlwood

  “Hell!” I burst out.

  “Pardon?” said Kitty.

  I looked helplessly after Johnno.

  “He’s rather a pet, isn’t he? So fond of Noreen, too.”

  I could find no words to answer this.

  “A pet,” Kitty went on. Casting down her lashes, she added, “And you’re a bit nice, too.”

  I was out of my depth now, but I said determinedly, “When did Johnno work it out to come here?”

  “Oh, I suppose Wednesday when he walked home with Nor.”

  “Walked home?”

  “Nor was working back Wednesday night.”

  An underworld was opening around me and Johnno was part of it. No doubt Eileen was in it too, and the Mechanics’ Hall was a gathering place where secret arrangements were entered into. It held an alarming sort of attraction and repulsion at the same time.

  Kitty was sitting with her arms round her knees, gazing out to sea.

  “Do you like Ruth Chatterton?”

  “Ruth who?”

  “You know—the fillum star, the one in Sins of the Fathers.”

  She saved me from admitting my ignorance by beginning to rummage in her handbag. From among various scented articles she produced a folded page from a magazine. She blew powder off it and opened it carefully. A blonde girl stared at me with that same smouldering, underworld expression. There was something, too, about her hair-style and her shadowed eyelids . . . .

  “She reminds me of someone,” I admitted.

  “Oh?” said Kitty interestedly. “Who could it be, now?”

  I glanced up and she was regarding me from under darkened lids, her lips curved.

  “She reminds me—of you.”

  “Oh, Charlie, you do say the sweetest things! You don’t go round paying compliments to every girl you meet, do you?”

  It struck me all at once that I must have known a great deal about girls without realizing it. I leant over and took her hand as I had seen Johnno take Noreen’s. It was a scented, manicured little hand, unbelievably soft.

  “Oh, Charlie,” she murmured. She leant towards me, her scent suddenly enveloping me, her hair brushing my cheek. I saw her curved lips waiting. Then somewhere beyond them, intruding alarmingly, I saw a pair of male shoes half-hidden by dirty Oxford bags.

  I shot to my feet and found myself facing Big Simmons. He stood with half-closed eyes, hands on hips, breathing quickly.

  “Ron,” breathed Kitty. “Oh, Ron!”

  “Shut up!” cried Big. “A bloke oughta belt you, telling a feller all that dope. Who’s this runt?”

  “Ronnie, he doesn’t mean a thing to me. We just happened to meet—”

  “You were getting on pretty good—holding bloody hands—”

  “He made me—”

  “He did, eh? Clear out then while me and him have a little talk.”

  Kitty scrambled up and made off in the direction opposite to Johnno. As we looked after her a fearful silence fell over the place; the waves stopped lapping on the rocks, the trees became still, the seagulls disappeared. Big spat at my feet. “Who said y’ could take my sheila out?”

  “I didn’t take her—”

  “My bloody oath you took her!”

  My voice came from a long way off. “I just happened to meet her.”

  I watched him with horrible fascination—his coppery stubble and sideboards, his grubby sweater and narrow eyes. “By hell, y’ll pay for this!”

  When I saw no hope of reprieve, a feeling of stubbornness swam up through my fears. He was standing above me on the slope in a position of advantage. I watched him take his hands unhurriedly off his hips. He was “Big” Simmons; he had no need to hurry.

  I didn’t wait for him to punch, but dived and caught him below the knees with my shoulder. I felt him shoot over me and crash into the grass. But then I did nothing more than scramble to the level ground and hesitate as if it had all been a practice with Johnno.

  He picked himself up and charged up the slope, arms out from sides and face twisted. “Smart bastard!”

  He drove a straight right that would have taken my head. I ducked under it and rolled away, bringing my eyes back to his. He came quickly again, swinging left and right. Most of the blows missed; the rest I took on my arms and back glancingly.

  He pressed in closer. “Fight, y’ windy little bastard!”

  I swayed right as he came in and saw his face unguarded. I punched his nose with all my strength and saw blood gush suddenly over his lip and chin. He let out a bellow and drove his knee into my groin. As I doubled up he jumped in and wrapped an arm round my head and began punching my face with his other hand, grunting with each blow. I reached blindly for his ankle and wrenched his foot off the ground but his fingers went into my eyes deeply. There was a white light and someone screamed. He let go then and I felt myself rolling through darkness. The sea, I thought. The cliff! But my head came hard against something and I lost consciousness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I knew it was daylight still by the blur of light. The girl’s voice said again, “Leave him; you’ve got to leave him, or we’ll really be in for it.”

  Then Johnno’s voice answered. “You can if you like.”

  “If you don’t come I’ll never speak to you again.”

  “You don’t have to,” he said. “You can clear out.”

  She shouted something at him and that was all I heard of her.

  I tried to open my eyes, but gasped with pain. I heard Johnno say, “Charlie—are you okay, Charlie?”

  “I can’t see,” I said.

  “Who was it?”

  “Big Simmons. He got his fingers in my eyes.”

  I heard an intake of breath. “It’s all my fault,” he said.

  “Has Noreen gone?”

  “Yes,” said Johnno flatly.

  I was sitting up, feeling about me.

  “Can you walk?”

  “I think so,” I said.

  But when I stood up I found it harder than I had expected. It was three miles back to the town. Even with Johnno guiding me I travelled slowly, stumbling and swaying along the track, my eyes scalding. Every few minutes Johnno asked in a worried voice, “Can you see yet?”

  But I could hardly answer for the pain.

  I asked once, “Where are we now?”

  “Near the Esplanade,” he said. “You can’t tell?”

  “No,” I said.

  “It’s just about dark,” he told me.

  I tried to open my eyes again but it was useless.

  “They may be better in a while,” I said. But I didn’t believe it.

  After a long time we began descending towards the town. I wondered vaguely then what my father would say, but the pain drove any real anxiety out of me.

  Johnno said, “I better take you to Dr Stuart’s.”

  We were scarcely speaking by this, but every now and then I felt his grip tighten anxiously.

  We were somewhere in the main street when he gripped me so hard that I stopped. Almost at once I heard my father’s voice exclaim, “Good God, what’s happened?”

  “A fight,” I said, my voice all at once uncontrollable.

  “Who—?”

  “Ron Simmons.”

  “It’s my fault,” I heard Johnno say.

  But my father didn’t answer him. I felt his hand on my shoulder. “What has he done to your eyes?”

  “Dug his fingers into them.”

  I heard my father catch his breath. “Can you see?”

  “A bit,” I said.

  “Did you see it happen, Fred?”

  “No—no,” stammered Johnno.

  “He found me,” I said. My voice was too unsteady to say more.

  “We’ll go to the doctor’s. Fred, run to our p
lace and tell Mrs Reeve we’ll be late. Better tell her what’s happened—try not to make it too worrying for her.”

  “No, sir,” said Johnno. I had never heard him call my father sir before.

  I heard him go away, then I went on alone with my father, walking slowly.

  “It’s hurting badly?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  He held on to my arm, telling me when we were coming to kerbs.

  “It might hurt having them examined,” he warned.

  We came to the doctor’s gate, then crunched slowly up the gravel path and rang the doorbell. I heard Mrs Stuart senior, a sour old woman, come to the door and exclaim, “Now look, Mr Reeve, doctor’s at dinner. He has to eat like other people, you know.”

  “My boy’s in a good deal of pain,” said my father firmly.

  “Fighting, by the look of it.”

  “I’m not asking for your diagnosis. Just show me to the waiting-room and get the doctor.”

  Before she could reply I heard Dr Stuart push back his chair in the dining-room and call out, “Is that you, Mr Reeve?”

  “It is,” said my father. “Sorry to disturb you.”

  “A fight, did I hear?”

  “You certainly did,” replied Mrs Stuart.

  “That’s quite enough,” he said to his mother. I heard her go snorting away. “A fight with the elder Simmons larrikin, eh?”

  “When did you hear?” demanded my father.

  “He came in with a broken nose,” said the doctor. My father began to exclaim something but the doctor interrupted, “Splendid blow—about time someone did it. What’s the damage here?”

  “My eyes,” I said, lifting my head.

  “Good lord! How did this happen?”

  “Dug his fingers into them,” said my father.

  The doctor tilted my head back. “Dug them in all right. Pretty nasty kind of fight, eh?” He took my arm. “Come into the surgery and we’ll see what’s to be done.”

  He pressed me into a chair and tilted my head back. “This may hurt.”

  He tried to open my right eye and at that I felt my head spin. I began sliding off the chair back into unconsciousness . . . .

  When I came round I was on the surgery table, a tremendous burning in my eyes. From behind a light the doctor was saying, “That’s my advice, anyhow. I can give him something to ease the pain on the journey up. You haven’t a car, have you?”

  “No,” said my father.

  “How much would a hire car run into?”

  “Three pounds, I dare say; but that’s what we’ll do.”

  “Lot of money, but I see nothing else for it. They’ll probably keep him for a bit—unless there’s somewhere near by where he could stay?”

  “My mother’s. She’s in East Melbourne—I’ll telephone her.”

  I put my hand over my eyes.

  “Hurting, eh?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “We’re sending you to the Eye and Ear Hospital so that they can have a look at you. Just a precaution.” He began bandaging my eyes firmly.

  “How much do we owe you?” asked my father.

  “I’ll send an account—”

  “No,” said my father, “I avoid accounts if I possibly can.”

  “All right, all right. Becoming an unfashionable practice these days, I can tell you.”

  So we went up to Melbourne by hire car. This took half my father’s wages for the week.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  My grandmother’s house was in Victoria Parade. To go to it was to go to another country; not an unknown country, but a country vaguely familiar. This country, I knew, was England. It was protected from Australian heat and lack of respectability by old, thick walls and by my grandmother herself.

  To go in you pulled a brass bell-pull and, somewhere within, a bell jingled faintly. When you stepped inside and the door closed, all sound of cable trams and brewery wagons and Chinese market-carts was reduced to rumblings and you knew it was not Melbourne, but London, that rumbled outside. It did not intrude, it knew its place; in this cosy world everything knew its place. There were shelves of books bought in London and walls hung with generations of family portraits; there were marble mantels with glass-domed clocks, and hanging lustres that split the light into rainbows; there was coal in the grates, and in one corner rested a musical box.

  The holiest place was the drawing-room. In there I had always been urged to sit up straight and not to speak unless spoken to. Fidgeting and interrupting were not done, not done, not done.

  My grandmother still dominated this house. She lived there alone now, having outlived a couple of spinster daughters and a bachelor son. Sitting at the head of the table at family gatherings she reminded me of Queen Victoria, body erect, hair parted at the centre, expression not amused.

  I was glad I could not see her sharp eyes this night with my father when we came from the hospital. She made a “tch-tch” sound as we stood at the door, but instead of shaking hands as she normally did she kissed me lightly above the bandage. This, I felt, was a rare concession.

  My father said, “He may be here a fortnight, mater. Can you manage?”

  “Of course I can manage.”

  I was led upstairs to the small bedroom over the Parade and told to get undressed. I felt my way to the bed and got in.

  The throbbing had eased, but my eyes were bandaged firmly. I lay back listening to the far sad cry of paper-boys and the sound of the gripman throwing the lever to coast a tram downhill.

  Outside, I thought, is London and downstairs is Queen Victoria. Her voice came faintly to me from her London parlour.

  “You fought, too, my boy. A phase, you know; a phase—”

  “It’s the type of lout he fought with,” said my father.

  “Well, the standards in a young country, you know . . . .”

  I heard my father come softly upstairs. He stood for a time without speaking, then asked quietly, “You awake still, son?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I must go home in a few minutes.” He sat on the end of the bed. “You were fortunate that no permanent damage was done.”

  “How long will my eyes be bandaged?”

  “Three or four days; perhaps more.”

  I moved impatiently.

  “You should think of consequences before you get yourself involved in larrikinism.”

  “I couldn’t help it,” I answered.

  “Just what happened?”

  I became silent. Since I couldn’t see his expression it was not so difficult to remain silent.

  “I can tell you this,” he said. “I’m going to see Sergeant Gouvane when I get back. Whatever the cause was, I’m not going to stand for a lout trying to blind you. Now, what can I say at the police station?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered uneasily.

  “Don’t know? That’s absurd, surely? What caused the argument in the first place?”

  “You don’t have to do anything to start a fight with the Simmons.”

  “No,” he said. “No; I grant you that. Was Fred Johnston with you?”

  I tried to think how my answer might involve him, but my mind moved slowly.

  “Well, was he?”

  “No,” I said. “He came afterwards, after Ron Simmons had gone—” I hesitated. “My eyes are beginning to hurt,” I said.

  “Gouvane will go to Simmons,” my father persisted. “What story is he likely to hear there?”

  I had convinced myself that I was in pain again.

  “My eyes—”

  “Now look, son, I’m going home and I’m going to the police station. Something has to be decided about this tonight. I don’t want to find you’ve told only half the story. Did you say anything to annoy Ron Simmons?”

  “No,
” I said. Even to my own ears my voice sounded uncertain.

  “Did he simply walk up and hit you?”

  “Just about,” I said.

  “Was anyone else there?”

  I hesitated.

  “Who was it?”

  I felt my face redden.

  “Not Fred Johnston?”

  “No,” I said.

  “One of the Simmons girls?”

  What made him ask this I didn’t know, but at the word “girls” something about me made him suspicious.

  “Some other girl?”

  I left this unanswered too long.

  “Who now?”

  “Kitty Bailey,” I heard myself say.

  “I see.” He got up and began walking up and down beside the bed. “You happened to come on them at a time that—uh—annoyed him?”

  “No, it wasn’t like that—”

  “Well?”

  “He thought I was—out with her.”

  He stopped walking. “And were you?”

  “No—not exactly.”

  “‘Not exactly’? What does that mean?”

  “I was going for a walk and I just happened to meet her.”

  He sat slowly on the bed again. “What sort of a girl is she?”

  “Stupid,” I said.

  An awkward silence fell over us. Outside I could hear a cart rattling by and someone laughing.

  “I haven’t spoken much to you about girls when I come to think of it.” He cleared his throat. “Just what happened when you met this girl?”

  “Nothing. We just talked—”

  “About—?”

  “About Ruth Chatterton.”

  “Ruth who?”

  “Ruth Chatterton—the film actress.”

  “Oh, I see.” He paused and for a while I could hear him breathing. “Nothing else happened? I mean . . . .” I waited to see what he meant, but he didn’t say. “You know,” he said suddenly, “or perhaps you don’t know—girls, or girls of her type anyway, are dangerous?”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “I don’t blame you for being—interested. After all, you are reaching an age when—uh—” His voice wavered, but he recovered by asking, “What happened then?”