by Joy Dettman
‘Like two fish out of water,’ Kerrie had said today. ‘Amy was this faded tropical goldfish wanting to swim upstream. Norman was one of those grey sucker fish, always sucking onto her fins, holding her back. He wasn’t much older than her, but from a distance he looked like her father.’
And the new teacher, Ms Glen White? What would she be? ‘Another fish out of water?’ John had asked.
‘I’m hoping for a six-foot shark with razor teeth, something you couldn’t kill with a bazooka,’ Kerrie had replied.
An interesting girl, she didn’t spend a lot of time wondering if what she said was right or wrong. She let it rip and hang the consequences. He’d miss her. Miss the lunches they ate together. Miss the laughs.
She had urged him to apply for the job permanently. ‘I like your style, and your size. You’re too big to tangle with, John. Go for it.’
He had the qualifications. More than enough. He’d done his years at the university in Brisbane, then taught in a secondary school there for two years, and at a primary school on the island. Spent most of his life studying something. Over-educated. Overqualified for the job, but not for life.
‘You’re home-grown. You know the parents, and that’s half the battle when you’re dealing with some of these kids.’
He’d let it slide. Shouldn’t have. Too late now.
He watched a wardrobe leave the house, saw O’Rouke’s mother guarding it, and he smiled.
‘Don’t you scratch it. It was Normy’s grandmother’s. Watch what you’re doing there.’ Raucous little woman, she had to be eighty – another Granny Bourke in the making. He and Kerrie had been eating lunch on the verandah when she’d marched around the corner, mouth already in motion.
‘A gummy shark, that one.’ Kerrie’s mind still on fish. He’d laughed. The old dame hadn’t a tooth in her head.
Malcolm Fletcher had awakened John’s laugh, and in recent weeks it had claimed its freedom. He was working his way through Chef-Marlet’s novels – now that he knew the author – and his laughter sometimes disturbed the mud brick house in the dead of night. Not that the novels were particularly humorous – a little black humour, perhaps; but it was the thought of his old headmaster having written those words that tickled the funny-bone.
No one to laugh with, though, about the old man’s secret. Except Annie. She and her little ones had driven down on Sunday. They’d been drinking tea, eating Ellie’s pumpkin cake, when he’d said, ‘Have you read Chef-Marlet, Ann?’
She’d turned to him, held his eye for a full ten seconds. ‘You don’t read that smut, Johnny?’
‘Bron reads them,’ Ben had said. ‘She’s sweating on Number 10, but by the sound of it, there isn’t going to be a Number 10. The rep was up here last week.’
Ann and Johnny knew more than Ben and the rep, but they said not a word.
Secrets. Were they to be bound forever by secrets? He sighed then and looked towards his car – his father’s car, now registered in his name. Time to go home. Didn’t want to go home. Didn’t want to get in that car and drive. Always got the urge to keep on going when he got behind that wheel. Just go.
Go to Narrawee and get rid of one secret.
He shook his head and turned his eyes again to the men at work and he let his mind roam back to Malcolm’s son. Only a month between him and JFK. Both close to their sixteenth birthdays the year the world had ended. Too old to play games, but he and his mate had played at archaeology most Saturdays, riding out to the sand dunes, Annie sitting on the bar of his bike, JFK toting their digging tools.
They’d found an old Aboriginal burial ground and had been digging there for weeks. Not acceptable these days, but back then no one had considered old bones as part of a lost culture.
He’d taken Annie everywhere with him, as much to get her away from Ellie as from her father. His mate hadn’t cared. John Fletcher had liked teaching her, liked looking at the sign language book and finding the signs for new words. She was signing well, and reading his lips too well. In the eighteen months since her father had brought her home from the Melbourne hospital, John had been her teacher.
She’d been making a sand castle close by when he and JFK started their dig that day. They unearthed charcoal first, then burned bones. When they’d found a portion of a metal zip fastener, they knew these bones hadn’t been those of some ancient black man.
Then Johnny had seen Annie pick something up from a clump of reeds. He’d seen her look at it, grasp it in her hand, hide the hand behind her back.
‘Show me,’ he’d signed.
‘No thing.’
‘Bottle top?’ he’d signed.
‘No thing.’ And she’d cried.
He’d taken her wrist, opened her hand and seen the ring.
‘Where did she find that?’ JFK had dropped his tools. ‘That’s a good ring. Those are probably diamonds on the sides.’
Johnny had known it was a good ring. Known the man who had worn that good ring too. He’d stared at the shoulder diamonds, flashing fire in the sunlight, and they had burned his eyes while a ghost walked over his grave.
Vision of his father in the flashing fire. His father scrubbing the boot of his car. Smell of disinfectant. Smell of decay.
What did you have in the boot, Dad?
A dirty mongrel dog.
Stink of rot.
Dirty mongrel dog.
Uncle Sam?
Uncle Sam’s ring in his hand, the smell of disinfectant and decay in his nostrils, he’d picked up the burned zip fastener. A heavy-duty zip. Uncle Sam had always worn jeans. Then he’d dropped the ring into his pocket and taken up the shovel to search for more. Uncle Sam had always worn a heavy gold chain at his throat.
The voice, his mate’s voice of sanity: ‘We probably shouldn’t touch anything else, Johnny. We probably should get Constable Johnson out here, shouldn’t we?’
‘You get him. Ride in and tell him, but don’t say anything about the ring. It’s Dad’s.’ First lie. Stupid lie. Why? ‘Annie must have taken it off the dressing table. She’ll get into trouble if he finds out.’ Second lie. Why?
And too quickly he’d taken the ring from his pocket and slipped it onto his middle finger to hide the inscription.
Sam and May 1953.
He’d spoken to Annie when they were alone. ‘You have to tell me where you got it, Annie. You have to tell me what happened when you were in Narrawee.’ She could hear when she wanted to. He hadn’t heard of elective mutes in those days, but he’d known she wasn’t deaf.
‘Tell me,’ he’d signed. ‘Uncle Sam ring. Where Annie find ring?’
‘Forget,’ she’d signed, and she’d cried.
‘Tell me, Annie love. You have to tell me.’
‘I like forget, my Johnny.’
He’d taken her home, and he’d gone back to the sand dunes, riding beside his mate in the back seat of the police car. They’d shown Bob Johnson their find. And the zip. Hadn’t mentioned the ring.
It was late when Johnson drove the boys home, and John had been late for dinner. He’d walked to the kitchen door and stood watching his father gnaw on a chicken drumstick. So big, Jack Burton had dominated that table. Gravy on his lips. Roast chicken, mashed potatoes, pumpkin and green beans on his plate. John could see it today as clearly as he had seen it back then. A colourful image to hold on to for so many years.
‘We found a body out at the sand dunes,’ he’d said, his eyes watching his father’s face. It had paled. He’d dropped the drumstick and stood abruptly, walked from the room, walked away from his plate of roast chicken.
Little Annie watching, reading faces, her fork playing in mashed potato and brown gravy. Big dark eyes like pits. Angular little face tight. Little mouth moving. One large front tooth and a gap.
But no time to think of her that night. He’d snatched a handful of coins from the egg money jar and he’d ridden up to the post office where he’d placed a call to Narrawee. Had to know. Had to be sure. Then he’d tell. Then he’
d go to Constable Johnson and tell what he knew.
May had picked up the phone.
‘I want to speak to Uncle Sam, please. It’s Johnny,’ he’d said.
‘John? I’m sorry, but Sam isn’t here.’
‘I know he’s not there. Dad . . . Dad . . . ’ He couldn’t say the words. ‘I found Uncle Sam’s ring up here, Aunty May. I think Dad–’
‘Don’t.’ That’s all she’d said. ‘Please God. Don’t do anything, John. Please God, don’t say any more.’ And she’d hung up.
Mr Ponsford had ridden down the next morning with a telegram: ‘Jack. Call me. Urgent. May.
She knew. She knew Sam was dead!
Madness.
And Annie hiding from him. Running from him. Crying. Annie knew.
He’d gone to the willow tree, to where he’d watched her hide her golden syrup tin, and he’d opened it, placing Sam’s ring safe inside. No one touched her golden syrup tin. Ellie wasn’t interested, Ben was trustworthy and Jack Burton wouldn’t have gone hunting around the river for it. Johnny had looked at her treasures, brought with her from Narrawee, and at the scraps of paper, folded small.
And he’d read her little poems.
And he’d read:
Daddy went to Narawee to get his Liza and get me
but he cort her in the sella playing with the derty fella
when he tryd to kill him ded, he got Liza’s head insted
so he put his golden trezzur with the flowers to bloom for ever.
May knew. Annie knew. Now Johnny knew.
‘Where is it?’ That night the murdering bastard had dragged Johnny into the grain shed. ‘Where is it? What did you do with the ring?’ He’d taken off his belt, white with fear or rage, and he’d used his belt.
It hadn’t got him what he’d wanted.
‘You killed him. You brought him up here in the car boot and you burned him out at the dunes. You killed Liza too? Where did you burn her?’
‘You don’t know anything about it. You don’t know a bloody thing about it.’
‘It’s your fault that Annie has gone like she is too. You’d better kill me too, because if you don’t I’m telling Constable Johnson.’
‘Then tell him, you disloyal little bastard, and see if I care.’
But John Fletcher was sick. He was in hospital. And Johnny’s head was on fire. He thought he had encephalitis. Thought he was going to die. Ellie fed him aspros and told him he was delirious when he spoke of Uncle Sam and Liza’s murder.
Then John Fletcher died. And Johnny cried.
Couldn’t talk. Not to Annie. Not to Ben. Couldn’t talk. Not to his mother. Couldn’t talk to Bessy. Decided to do an Annie. Never open his mouth again. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t sleep. The encephalitis germ hadn’t killed him, just killed his mind. For a month he didn’t go to school. Spent his days planning, walking, planning. Spent his nights fighting his father. Spent his nights sharpening the axe, honing the carving knife.
Then that last day. His father drunk, taunting Annie, showing her photographs from Narrawee.
Annie screaming.
‘If you can scream, you can talk, you shamming little bitch. Talk to me. Talk.’
Ellie screaming at him to stop.
‘Talk to me. I don’t need any more bloody guilt.’
Johnny’s mind eaten away. Only red inside now. Only hate and fear and his own guilt. He’d picked up the old black poker. Used his father’s head as a golf ball. He’d finish the screaming.
Tried to finish what he’d begun too, but Ellie wouldn’t let him. She’d fought him for the poker, and he couldn’t fight her. His fight wasn’t with her.
For the love of God, Johnny. What’s wrong with you lately?
He killed Liza, Mum. He killed Uncle Sam.
You dreamt it. You were sick. You’re acting like a crazy boy lately. You don’t know what you’re doing any more.
He killed them, Mum, and Annie knows it. I could prove it to you if I could find her tin.
Little Annie, standing, head-butting the wall. Little Annie, crying soundlessly. Little Annie’s golden syrup tin gone now from the fibre cave of willow roots. Sam’s ring, gone with it.
If you keep on like this, they’ll put you away, Johnny.
He killed them, Mum, and Annie knows it. That’s what’s wrong with her.
You’ve got to get away from here, or someone is going to die. You’ve got to go, Johnny.
And he’d gone. Almost sixteen. He’d gone, Annie on his heels.
I love Johnny. I come. Little hands signing.
Go back, Annie.
Little legs running. Go away far. We take bad ring. Go far over sunset.
And she’d given him Sam’s ring, warm from her hot little hand.
He’d hailed down a truck; it had taken him south, where he’d wandered, picked fruit, worked for a week or two then wandered again, sleeping rough but staying close to home and to Annie.
He was going to go back. He had the ring. He was going to go back. When he was big enough. Never big enough. That was the trouble.
Then one morning he’d looked in the mirror to see if he was big enough and he’d seen the bastard staring back at him. And that evening, he’d drunk two bottles of beer and he’d become the bastard. That was the day he’d started running from himself, and he’d ended up in Brisbane, cold, hungry, lonely. He’d crept into a church, slept the night on a polished pew. Next morning a young priest found the dishevelled, broken boy, no soles in his shoes. Soulless.
The long black garb had covered this man. Only the face. Only the hands. Face bland. Hands clean.
How do I become a priest, Father?
Have you eaten recently, lad?
The old building, a classic from last century, sun glinting on coloured windows, high up, untouched by the filth outside. A priest might live, breathe, move within this clean and perfect world, that reality could not violate.
Outside, outside of this place . . .
Johnny had not wanted to step outside again. To be his father’s son again.
How can I learn to be a priest, Father?
Do you have parents, family to support you?
I want to be a priest.
Breakfast, perhaps, and a shower, a change of clothes. Then we’ll talk about it.
The church had paid for a haircut. The church had given him clean clothing, and shoes. He had not given the church his name, but he’d found work in a supermarket, and at night he’d sat again in a classroom, lost in his books, hiding in his books.
He’d completed form five, and packed shelves, waited tables for a second year, made hamburgers in the school holidays, mowed lawns. And when the results of his final exams came out, and his name had been amongst the top ten in the state, he’d returned to that church and handed the priest his results.
How do I become a priest, Father?
The Catholic church claimed him that day. It guided him, paid his way, filled the empty hole in his life. It allowed him to hide from self, to cover self beneath the black garments of anonymity. But the garments were gone now. Only a maroon sweater and blue jeans, a striped grey and white shirt. Only one casual shoe and a black sock to cover his plaster.
What now, Johnny Burton? What now?
So the seasons altered once more. September’s page on the BURTON AND DOOLEY EMPORIUM calendar, a fluffy kitten, its mouth open in a yawn, gave way to a basket full of puppies. The paddocks were green, and the lambs fat, the cows were heavy with milk while their new calves nibbled grass and sucked mush from buckets, memories of the warm teat and the suck of bliss only a dream now.
Ms Glen White came to the school on that Monday morning in September, a new broom sweeping clean, but she left two weeks later, on the day the September school holidays began. She had three growing daughters to consider, and she didn’t consider Mallawindy worth considering as a long-term situation.
Got out fast. Ran before the removalists had time to move in her furniture. Packed her case and skeda
ddled home to Mum and her girls.
So the old school residence remained empty, and when the nights grew warm, the town youths came with their girls and their spray cans. Newly painted walls made a fine canvas for graffiti, and on the new floor covering, placed down for Ms Glen White and her girls, Jeff Rowan found condoms and worse.
‘Drug problem in Mallawindy’ the Daree Gazette reported. Jeff Rowan was not yet ready to allow his tiny town to disappear again into dusty anonymity.
on the dotted line
Saturday 18 October
A sometimes gentle month, October, summer in waiting, gathering her heat in readiness to scorch the land. But not yet, not today.
May and Jack had left Daree at seven-thirty. They’d be in Narrawee by mid-afternoon.
‘That’s a nice looking property.’ May sat in the passenger seat watching the land skimming by.
‘Yeah.’ A fourth-generation landowner, Jack was no farmer. Land was land was land, and bulls were the raw material of roast beef. May ran the two properties, her own, Hargraves Park, and Narrawee, giving orders to her manager as one born to it. Jack was the tail that wagged behind her, but a more relaxed tail today. Christmas was now visible on the horizon; the year had begun to move again. Only two and a half months and black Jack would be dead.
For thirty years now he’d signed his S J Burton beside May’s signature. Nothing would alter.
His mother had taught both him and Sam their early letters; they’d had a similar hand and it hadn’t been difficult to forge his brother’s signature. Just painful. It was still painful, but there wasn’t a lot he could do about that pain.
As a boy he’d believed that one day the Narrawee property would belong to him. That dream had died the day of his father’s funeral. Narrawee had been willed to Sam, then to the children of Sam. The property would only fall into the hands of Jack should his brother die without issue. And Sam had died without issue, died by his brother’s hand, and like the stinking corpse of an animal, he’d been burned to prevent the spread of his obscene disease.