by Rohan Wilson
You what? Beatty banged his club on the fence, giving William a jolt.
The gardener turned another sod and broke it.
I can arrest you for causin obstruction.
Do what you like.
There passed a heavy silence where the gardener worked the rose bed and kept his eyes low. William could see Beatty’s hand gripping the fence slat above him, the supple hands of a man who knew no labour. The fingers began to drum.
He’s stolen from the brewery, Beatty said.
The gardener shook his head wearily. He turned a sod.
He must’ve come along here some place, Beatty said.
The fork sank without a sound.
You must’ve seen the little prick.
You’ll have nothin from me, the gardener said.
Beatty slammed his club against the fence slats. I shall be mighty aggravated if I lose him.
Then best you get searchin.
The fingertips grew red with strain. He come along here, Beatty said. He must’ve.
The gardener levered up a solid lump rife with earthworms. He folded it over.
You hear what I said?
Now the gardener stopped. He leaned on his tool and looked about the yard, a jaded sort of patience to his grey eyes. No, he said without looking at the constable. You aint hearin me. Arrest me if you like, knock me about, whatever. I’ll not sell on a child.
William could hear the out-hiss of breath as Beatty wheeled away, the steadily receding slap of club upon thigh. He sat for a while listening and holding tight to his knees. He watched the gardener kneel to fetch out a stone that had surfaced and toss it among the flowers. He was faced away from William and nor did he look at the boy. The tool sunk with a press of his leg and he lifted a width of dark velvet earth. Rising carefully, William glanced over the fence line to where the constables at some distance scoured the park side of the street, poking their sticks into bits of planted brush and kicking through the shrubs, the pair of them with their sleeves rolled in the manner of sailors, calling for the boy to present. He lowered down.
Get yourself along, the gardener said.
He had stopped work. His hands were cupped upon the point of the handle and his head was bowed so that he seemed to be talking to the very earth.
They’ll have me, William said.
I won’t harbour thieves.
He was lyin. It wasn’t me at the brewery.
I said get.
William took a breath ready to argue but the gardener had lifted his tool and turned.
Get.
I’m going, I’m going, he said. He began to edge away along the fence.
Stay gone.
Yes, sir.
The gardener stopped and stood in a wide stance, the fork braced at his hip.
That was a good thing you done, William said as he edged away.
Thank me by not comin back.
I will. I won’t.
As he crossed under the low, harvest-heavy branches of orchard trees he knocked loose some fruit and he cut towards the side fence with it thudding behind him. He topped the palings in a crazed leap, tumbled, and fell into the neighbouring yard. There was a bed of carnations into which he splayed on his back, the wind taken from his chest. He coughed and winced and could not breathe. He went loping across this new yard, heading for the next fence, the next fall. In that fashion, and with a shred of luck, he put some distance on the constables before taking the footpath on Windmill Hill, heading to where he had a view along the road, over the park, and into town. He shaded his eyes with one hand. Beatty and Webster were gone, or at least he could not see them. Wind had slanted the smoke that rose long and lank and grey as drought-plain grass above the rooves. Away in the distance cow fields ran down to where the river shone like wet slate. He sat a moment on the gravel path in thought.
How long did he dare wait? He remembered the ash on his mother’s cheeks, the shallowness of her breath. He put his head in his hands and sat considering what to do. There was also the matter of Oran Brown, who’d need warning of what Beatty meant, but that boy might be anywhere and now was not the time. In the end there was little else for it. She must have the doctor. He stood and scanned the park, the road, the stretch of houses that ran away to the mud-fringed river. No sight of the constables. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. Keeping close to the houses along the hill, he set out for the doctor’s place. When he crossed the intersection his mouth was dry and his fists were clenched at his sides. But there were only the early risers, the men off to the wharf and the bakeries.
At the doctor’s place he unlatched the gate and walked up the path with his head swivelling to survey the street. He took hold of the knocker and was raising it when a fellow stood from out of the garden. He’d been cutting back rose bushes with iron shears, which he was now holding out mid-stroke.
Mrs Hampson has already taken our bottles, he said.
What?
Yesterday. Returned them to the store.
I aint come about bottles.
The fellow lopped the tip off a stalk. He was concentrating upon this task and seemed to forget the boy was there.
Me mother has taken a spell, William said. She wants a doctor.
The doctor looked up. He seemed puzzled. It’s Saturday, he said.
She fell on the floor. She won’t get up.
The doctor frowned.
Please, sir, she’s not well at all.
He looked around at his roses and then looked at the boy. Does she realise it’s Saturday?
She don’t realise much about much at the moment.
Can she speak?
No, sir. She’s insensible.
How far is it? he said.
Down the hill, down Cimitiere Street.
There’s an extra rate payable on Saturdays.
Yes, sir, very well. But you must come. She aint well.
The doctor set aside his shears. Well, come on then. Let’s see her.
It was the best part of an hour before he arrived back with the doctor. The doctor was in a coat despite the heat, hair askew in the wind, hauling a carpet bag that must have held his instruments. William went almost at a run. He glanced back in spells to check the doctor was coming. The doctor would jog a few paces and then walk and then wave for him to slow down. At the front of the house William lifted back the latch and held the gate for the doctor. He showed him inside where his mother had fallen before the kitchen fire and the doctor dropped his bag on the table and took one look at Maria and shook his head.
What’s the matter with her? William said.
This lady has passed.
Is she sick?
She’s dead.
What? William was sweating. It dripped off his nose. Aint you better check? I mean, she looks unwell.
She’s blue, the doctor said.
So do somethin.
There’s no question. She is past my help.
She’s only thirty-eight, and never a day of illness in her life.
My boy—
What kind of doctor can’t help a healthy woman?
The doctor smiled but his lips were thin and drawn beneath his prim moustache. From the way the wires of his jaw flexed he seemed to want to say more, but he had grace enough to unclip his bag and pull out a bound pad and a pencil, lick the lead and begin to jot.
She can’t be, William said. It’s a mistake.
He knelt beside her and the moment he touched her forehead he knew it was no mistake. She was cold and eerily still. Not like sleep, not like life. His throat tightened and he felt everywhere a creeping sensation of the skin.
What happened to her? the doctor said.
When William looked up there was no longer anything fretful about him.
Did you see her fall?
No.
Did she hit her head?
I just come in, found her lyin here.
The doctor nodded slowly and without commitment. He studied William, his eyes flicking to the diff
erent parts of him, the hair like a sheaf of wheat, the loose and overlong clothes. He nodded and he took from his bag a pair of leather gloves and pulled them on. He came beside Maria and began very carefully to walk his arachnidian fingers around her throat, around her head, and through her pinned-up hair. Last of all he opened her mouth to peer inside.
Where is your father? he said.
William had grown pale. He couldn’t speak.
You live alone here with your mother?
After a moment William said, Not no more by the looks.
Do you expect your father home soon? Do you have family or friends who might attend to you?
I don’t need no one’s help, he said.
The doctor watched him a moment. He stood and retrieved his pad and jotted something else down. His mouth tugged as if he was talking secretly and his pencil moved and made a grazing noise. William looked away out the window where in the neighbouring yard he could see a girl passing sheets through a mangler and he thought his mother ought to be doing her washing too, given the weather, but his mother was dead and he was entirely alone in the world and he felt an utter fool for thinking it.
You must have family or friends, the doctor said. Someone who can attend to you.
I’ve an aunt and uncle. Cousins.
Where are they?
By the hospital hill. Over west.
Good. That will do.
I aint goin there.
Pardon me?
I’ll be right by meself. Like I told you.
The doctor closed his pad. My boy, he said, tapping his pencil. Go to them, or the police will be obliged to put you in the invalid depot.
They won’t send me nowhere cause I aint leavin.
You must be in care and the law won’t allow otherwise. Surely your father is nearby?
I can take care of meself.
The doctor looked at William and his jaw knotted and unknotted. He tore a sheet off his pad and folded it and placed it on the table. Given your circumstances I’ll provide you with fourteen days to pay that, he said.
Pay what? You aint done nothin for her.
Fourteen days, hear me. Not a minute more.
She’s as dead as ditches, you bloody crook.
There’ll be someone along for her presently. I’ll see to it.
The doctor snapped shut his bag. He didn’t look at the boy. He strode through the parlour for the door, his bootsoles sounding on the floorboards, then muffling over the possum skin rug, then sounding again as he cleared it.
After the doctor left, William sat and held his mother’s hand and wiped her forehead clean of ash. He straightened her collar. He wasn’t sure what else to do. In the airing cupboard he found a bed sheet and covered her up to the neck and she stared back as if he’d just delivered some woeful news. After a while he stood and went about making himself a breakfast. There was a little salted ling, a stale heel of rye bread, and some butter for it. Generally it was his mother’s job, and he kept expecting her to say something and he’d turn and look but she was ever silent. Her face had changed, slackened. He saw now how the fine shroud of ash she wore picked out the lines at her eyes, her mouth. She’d grown old and he hadn’t noticed. He went and took her hand and told her he was sorry. For a long time he sat holding the stiffening fingers, his eyes welling. She stared at the ceiling.
I tried, he said. I’m sorry. I tried.
The doctor must have sent for the cart from the hospital dead-house, for in the early afternoon the driver hove up outside and called from the gate if they had a poor soul inside needed ferrying home. William was sitting with his mother as he had been these last hours. He stood and looked out the window. The fellow saw him and waved. He mounted the verandah, walking respectfully slow. He wore an old felt wide-awake, which he doffed and held to his chest. William showed him through the door, through to the kitchen where Maria lay beneath the sheet watching the ceiling.
Oh dear me now, he said.
William could hardly speak. His throat felt stopped up.
Aint she young, though.
Yes, William said.
Least she has come upon it peaceful enough.
William nodded.
Not all of them do, the cart driver said. He fussed with the brim of his hat. Had one a week back, he said. He was a mess. A railways navvy. Been pickin out a blast from a tunnel wall which had missed its fire. Well, you can picture how it went. The thing goes off. Bang. All done.
William looked at him.
We carried the bits of his head back in a kero tin. There was a deal of the poor bugger we never found of course.
There was nothing to say. William watched him quietly.
A deal, yes, the cart driver said. But here, this is a scene of more than ordinary solemnity. This dear woman has met with a visitation from God. No misadventure here and no fool’s act. She is taken from us whole.
The fellow was full of emotion and his eyes glistened. An awkward quiet followed. William crossed his arms and uncrossed them.
Give us a hand, the cart driver said.
Now he went about the rites peculiar to his occupation, shaking out a handkerchief and folding a three-inch band, which he placed under Maria’s chin and fastened at the top of her head to hold shut her mouth. Over her eyelids he put small pads of wet cotton and he straightened her delicate limbs. She was bound in a bed sheet, wrapped and knotted, and then William took her booted feet under his armpit and they raised her up, the strain turning him a wild shade of red. It was all he could do to hold her. The cart driver watched him battle and nodded. The boy was doing this last and most absolute of acts and said not a word of sorrow. So it was, and so it should be.
In that manner they carried his mother out through the gate, into the street, and lowered her to the footpath. William was feeling the small of his back where he was bruised from Beatty’s club when he saw coming up by the town park two municipal policemen. Men he knew. They were at some distance and his best hope was that they’d not yet seen him. The thudding of his heart grew harder. With a count of three they lifted his mother onto the cart, into the sawdust spread in the bed. The driver squinted up at the sky.
She’s some summer we’re havin.
William watched the constables over the top of the horse standing dead still in the traces. Aint it, he said.
Miserable business, the driver said. Plain droppin dead like that.
Yes.
Best I get her home out of it.
Yes. Thank you.
They threw a rope, tied it off. There were eyebolts placed for that purpose along the flatbed and the driver tensioned the rope with a sheepshank knot while from the edge of his sight William observed the constables. The driver remounted the dead cart bench, huffing in the awful hot weather, and chucked the reins lightly and the whole shoddy concern stumbled forward, his mother joggling, her boots over the tailboard knocking like she’d seen fit to dance to kingdom come. The dead-cart driver made a superstitious sign and spat as the cart trundled off, strange old fool that he was.
Before the cart had drawn away a length William was back inside the house. He found his leather school satchel, unused these last years without his father, and filled it. His coat, a shirt and trousers, a pair of boiled wool socks. In his mother’s drawer he found a pound banknote and ten shillings loose, which he pocketed and he stood a time surveying their room, the rusted iron bedhead hard under the window, squares of orange sun cast across the quilt, and he pondered on what he was about to do. They’d clobber colours into his hide that he’d never seen. Bash open his wine-bladder head. Only if they caught him though, only if they caught him.
Beatty banged his club on the door. This is Beatty of the Launceston police house, he said. If William Toosey is in there, I should like to speak with him.
William turned rigid. He could see them cast in cameo on the window curtain. Demented shapes, as disproportioned as shadow puppets. He hooked the bulging satchel over his shoulder and backed away into the kitchen.
William Toosey! Present yourself.
By the kitchen table he paused. There was more he needed. He couldn’t leave yet. He stole into the parlour where, among the newspapers his mother kept piled by the rat-chewed armchair in which she sat each night, he found a printed biscuit tin and brought it to the light. Inside was her correspondence, sheaves of it, as well as blank paper and envelopes. He crammed this into his satchel. He gripped the bag and ran for the back door.
The yard at the rear was a spread of trampled grass hung across with washing lines. He could still hear the pounding on the door as he hit the fence and he lobbed his bag and threw himself over the palings after it. His high swinging boot heel caught a rope and made him topple but he was on his feet and dragging his satchel about his neck as he ran. The plot of land behind the house had been dug with trench footings for some new place and he leapt these ditches and skidded in the dirt and went on. At road’s end was a fringe of wire fence and beyond that unploughed paddocks furred in thin and mousy buttongrass. They would not look for him down there, not these two. He trod down the cross wires and bent himself through the fence.
There was a certain hollow tree he knew on a patch of sand near the riverbank that was long gutted by fire and weathered to a dull black. Leaning distinctly out of true, it reminded him of a figure hunched over a grave. He reached this tree and he sat within the hollow where he could see along the road to the house nestled in the lowering sunlight amongst the many such others. The gate was open. The front yard empty. There was no one below the ink-dark shade of the verandah, no uniformed men with their fearful billyclubs. He withdrew into the depths of the tree.
After a while he pulled his mother’s correspondence from the bag. Letters tied with ribbon, fifteen or twenty, all addressed in the same gaunt handwriting as if rather than paper it was a prison wall on which it was etched, dated from three years hence until the last two weeks ago in December. He slipped this latest one from the stack and flipped it over. The return address was simply care of the Deloraine post office. He looked up at a sky ribbed with cloud. A pair of cawing plovers. When they had passed out of sight he pulled a sheet of paper and a pencil and began to write a letter in his own neat schooled hand, and he wrote with great care across the page, his eyes running and his tears punctuating here or there a phrase or smearing out a letter. He dated it January the fifth in the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and seventy four. He wrote and when he was done he signed off, folded the paper into an envelope and on the front he scratched a name that gave him a small thrill of awe even as the pencil spiralled through it: