Silent Parts

by John Charalambous

  Kicking less vigorously, he slides into the reeds and squats in the shallows. He reaches up onto the flat rock where the soap nestles in his shoe. He scrubs his face, neck and armpits then lathers his thinning hair before wading out further to rinse away the suds. He stands thigh deep, a glistening white body, soft and plump about the stomach and hips. Examining his liver-coloured knob, he pulls back the skin and smears it in soap. He wags it clean in the water – clean but perfumed with mud. Not that he minds. He is better without his old squeamishness. At the same time he is inclined to self-ridicule. Quite the Don Juan, he tells himself.

  twenty

  His elation lasts throughout the day, allowing him to think again of events that had previously seemed irksome. In particular he dwells on a conversation with Uncle George, which at the time – sixteen months ago – had assaulted his understanding of his deceased parents. His mother was only a week in the grave when Harry was called to his uncle’s work shed at Albion. He found George in a weeping rage, refusing to come out. Yet he admitted Harry, who remembers a defiant old man sitting in the midst of the obsolete tools of his trade – bow-saws, gimlets, spoke-shaves, planes, relics of his Suffolk days – and whispering pitiably, ‘By Christ I miss Sammy.’

  That George had a heart came as a surprise, especially as he’d managed to keep his grief within bounds at the time of Sammy’s death.

  ‘We all miss him, Uncle.’

  ‘I weren’t jealous, I never begrudged him his successes, whatever she says.’

  She: bone of his body, mother of his eight children. Any conflict between the brothers had to be laid at her feet. She was the reason Sammy started the bakery and never went into the joinery. She was a dirty old sow, snide and vicious with envy!

  Dementia, Harry thought, yet was thrilled to hear his aunt disparaged – this woman who on the day Ma was buried remarked, ‘Well, there’s nothing keeping you now!’

  In any case, George had a steam up and couldn’t be discouraged.

  ‘I was daft, Harry-lad, too sensible for my own good. I didn’t look at her bottom half. I kept my dick in my pants, as you did in them days. If I’d gone chasing skirt like your old man . . . ’

  Was he saying Sammy was reckless?

  Harry is no longer sceptical. Rebellious, defiant, greedy for life – his mother and father both!

  ‘At one time I thought: What’s he see in her? Six foot, shoulders like a woodcutter and too shy to say boo! You wouldn’t credit it would you? Your Ma shy! And then there was the social difference. Her old boy being a bookbinder and naturally not wanting her marrying down. But that’s where old Sarah showed her colours. Shy or no, she tucks Sammy under her arm and says: “Now look you here, Pater, I’m having this one and no argument!”’

  The rest was familiar, how Sarah said, ‘Emigrate!’ – principally to get away from her family – and Sammy jumped to, how George warmed to the idea and Mary was dragged along in terror. How Sarah had her schemes to pass the time, making it her project to educate Sammy, how he left England barely able to recognise his letters and stepped down onto South Melbourne wharf a reader of signage and newspapers on a footing with George, and even a little quicker in accounts. The old anecdotes, repeated for three generations now. But to Harry’s distress, in George’s retelling there was something new, something he hadn’t heard and didn’t want to hear. How for instance in steerage they slept in compartments like boxes, or big coffins, two high, an upper and a lower, each with a curtain for privacy, how George and Mary had the bottom, Sammy and Sarah the top, how Mary couldn’t sleep at night for their ‘spooning’. He remembers George puckering vindictively, relishing the opportunity to expose the woman with whom he had lived half a century. ‘It’s her authoritative opinion they’re doing it too much. “Like a pair of bloody starlings,” she says. Strong words for her. Furthermore, as older brother I should have a chat with Sammy. Tell him to lay off. I mean, God Almighty, Harry, who does she think she is?’

  Strangely, this knowledge no longer seems sordid. He experiences a greater solidarity with his parents than he ever felt when they were alive. And yet he had been on the brink of fleeing, held there only by George’s anticipatory laughter. ‘So I tell her right-o, and afterwards I can see her wondering why them starlings keep at it. Plain impudence, the pair of them! Doing it to spite her! Oh yes, she developed a sizeable contempt for your Ma. Sammy she could forgive, but not Sarah. Then, come voyage-end old Mary discovers she’s got a bun in the oven. And what makes it doubly sweet, Sarah don’t. All that ruckus night after night and for what!’ About to explode, George leant close. He twinkled with malice and absurdity. ‘And you know what she says, Harry-lad? Two words. “God’s justice.” Now there’s a generous soul for you. God’s fucking justice!’

  twenty-one

  When Colombe arrives home he’s waiting in the kitchen. ‘Bonsoir,’ he tells her brightly, hoping to bluster through any embarrassment. Certainly she’s uncomfortable, murmuring a vague response while her eyes flicker over her kitchen. He thinks: Patience, Harry. She can’t be allowed to regret what they have done. He has to be the soul of gratitude.

  For several minutes she appears determined to disregard his existence, until all at once her expression becomes grim and she looks directly into him. He sees that she is steeling herself for the ordeal of words, a mode of communication that, while it has its place in card-play, they have largely abandoned as too exhausting – so much effort for so little comprehension. Yet she chooses this moment to try again. For once her pronunciation is slow and deliberate, though it doesn’t increase his understanding. As usual he feels miserably inadequate. He catches one phrase: ‘Il regardait.’ He is watching? Who is watching?

  From the deep pocket of her oily skirt she removes an object for him to inspect. It is a child’s toy, a little wooden aircraft four inches long, painted burgundy red. At first it seems such an insignificant thing that he’s inclined to smile, but is soon chastened by her earnestness.

  ‘Un garcon?’ he asks. A boy? A boy has been watching them?

  For reply, she brings him to the back door, where she hesitates, scrutinising the rose-plots before taking his sleeve and leading him out. They pass along the side of the house under the eaves. She takes the child’s toy and gestures at the road, or perhaps at the dense hawthorn and dog-rose hedge. In either case, it seems that a child has dropped a toy near their front gate. If not for her agitation he would think nothing of it. But he trusts her judgement. ‘Il regardait,’ she’d said. He is watching. Continuously watching? It is so exasperating not being able to ask the simplest questions: such as whether she knows the boy by name, whether she has actually seen him or deduced his existence from the lost toy, whether he passes this way regularly, whether he has a special interest in the property, whether, in fact, he has seen Harry himself. This latter possibility is alarming. Could he have been more careful? Perhaps, in his dreaminess, he has been guilty of an inadvertent slip.

  She is clearly relieved to have convinced him of the seriousness of the risk. He follows her back to her kitchen, where she places the little aircraft conspicuously on the ledge above the trough as if to serve as a constant alert and warning to him. It seems to proclaim an end, at least for now, to any continuation of the previous night’s intimacy, though he aches to touch her. Instead he must stand at a distance, watching her lift the lid of her clothes-chest and root about till she comes up with an old skirt. Intent on undressing, she shoos him away. She has grass to cut, geese to feed.

  Later, when she’s out in the fields, he returns to her kitchen. He’s not good with gestures, but imagines that if he can surprise her with a cooked meal it must count for something. He kindles the fire, hangs a pot of water over the grate and sets about peeling potatoes. Within five minutes she’s stomping at the door. She comes in flapping at the smoke. A caustic look: what does he think he’s doing? Smiling sweetly, he exhibits a half-peeled p
otato. Her thin-lipped mouth contracts. He can see that nothing frustrates her more than his good intentions. She turns on her heels and doesn’t come back till after dark, by which time his green beans and boiled potatoes are cold on her plate.

  Eating quickly and without comment, she turns periodically away from the table so she doesn’t have to face him. He understands that tonight there will be no wine or cards, or anything else.

  When she takes her plate to the trough he rises too, preparing to go to his room. ‘Bon nuit,’ he tells her, then more decisively: ‘Bon nuit, Colombe.’ Her name has an empty feel, new-learnt, not quite real. She’s slow to respond. He waits. When she glances back over her shoulder she looks tired and perplexed but acknowledges him with a slight tilt of her head.

  Patience, he reminds himself.

  twenty-two

  The next day isn’t just warm, it’s hot – an almost Australian heat that dries the sodden soil around the well into a crust and melts the tar on the barn roof. Blackbirds pant in the shade of the garden. He too hides from the sun, among the roses, sipping tepid water from a flask. He’s made a discovery: a bank of vigorous Noisettes that smother their smaller neighbours. Mademoiselle Elise? After recent errors he’s wary. The reddish wood and zigzag growth conform but the flowers aren’t quite what he remembers – a degree too yellow. Of course there are other candidates. Marechal Niel. Deprez a Fleur Jaune. Both of which his father planted at one time or another. And that’s where the pleasure lies, in weighing up the possibilities, in sifting the unlikely from the likely, because each cultivar is as distinct as a human being. He captures a spray of half-spent flowers, twists and breaks the cane. A scent of spring berries. The tip-most petals fall at a touch, revealing tired rings of stamens and bald styles. The small ovaries are already swelling – the business-end of beauty.

  He recalls his father’s desultory experiments with cross-fertilisation; how he went about the early morning garden forcing his pollen-dipped finger, almost obscenely, into newly opened buds; how for weeks certain bushes sported brown paper bags rather than roses. No new floral wonders came of it. A few nondescript little seedlings, nothing worth preserving. But this only served to increase Sammy’s respect for the professionals, especially when he read somewhere that Monsieur Nabonnand of Golf Juan (that genius of the tea rose) kept a record of crossings and back-crossings as fat as the Bible.

  Loyal as he is to his father’s enthusiasms, Harry doesn’t feel obliged to believe in genius, or for that matter in selective breeding. He has a suspicion, recently strengthened, that it might come down to a handful of hips plucked carelessly from a few good sorts and tossed over the shoulder. If this is disillusion, it doesn’t feel bad.

  There are still good sorts.

  A noise comes from the road. The suddenness of it whips Harry taut. He peers intently through the foliage, expecting to see the unknown boy. The hedge defeats him, but he is almost relieved to hear the sputtering cough of an adult man. He knows the source; has seen or heard this same individual several times at a distance – a former soldier by the evidence of his soiled, red-striped pants. At least once a week he trots in and out of Rouen, and today in the searing heat. It is some time before Harry realises he’s stopped at the gate. A moment later there is a battering on the front door. Then silence. By now Harry has crawled across two furrows to obtain a view of the house. He can’t see the front, just the side. But this is where the soldier eventually appears: an exceptionally tall man, round-shouldered, fair hair tinged grey. Apart from his lungs, there doesn’t seem to be much wrong with him. He examines the same window Harry tried nearly a month ago, and heaves unsuccessfully at the sash. If he was more methodical he might go round the back and find the door unlocked. The effort of trying to force the window leaves him bowed over. He spits on the grass. And there, conveniently at his feet, is Harry’s discarded river-stone. Briefly his face is clearly visible: clean-shaven, mild-eyed, unexpectedly intelligent. The clash of stone on glass is shockingly abrupt. He taps out the last shards and climbs up onto the sill, remaining there half in half out, apparently stuck. Less than twenty yards away, Harry considers rushing him, or shouting. He breaks through to the verge of the garden in anticipation. But he goes no further. After the moment of surprise, what then? How can he be sure he’ll run? He might have a weapon.

  Before Harry can regret his hesitation the soldier has slipped inside. And then Harry must wait. He waits impotently while a stranger riffles through his mademoiselle’s things. How long before he finds her money? She hasn’t been very careful – a calico bag in the cupboard. Already he dreads breaking the news to her. Her accusing look: why didn’t he stop it? What use is he? His bulk and height and well-nourished male muscles – what use? Unfair of course. She knows he’s in no position to play policeman. But she’ll think it, against all commonsense, just as he does.

  The minutes drag. Ten, fifteen, maybe more. Then there’s movement at the window. First a boot protrudes, then an entire crimson-clad leg stretching to touch the ground. Contorting his long body, the soldier squeezes through and stands in the sunlight. His cheeks bulge as he chews. Can only be bread. And if he’s found her bread he’s found her money. Certainly he seems pleased with himself, loping away with a world more energy and purpose than before. His wheezing and barking might almost be laughter. Gloating. Which is too much for Harry. Scrambling out from the roses, he hurls his flask. He sends it crashing into the side of the house and sees just enough of the departing soldier to know he’s put the wind up him. A short time later the soldier is a hundred yards up the road and still scurrying. Periodically he looks back but there’s nothing to see. Concealed in the lilacs, Harry despises himself for not acting sooner.

  The house is less ravaged than he feared, disorderly rather than damaged. Blankets flung to the floor, her clothes-chest ransacked. Two unopened bottles of wine have been removed from the cupboard and left on the kitchen table – probably too cumbersome to take. And beside these, the empty calico bag. Too easy. Blind Freddy could have found it.

  In the salon the sideboard is open. Linen, china, glassware and another unopened bottle of wine fan out on the rug. Three medallions, ripped from their frames on the wall, nestle together in a china bowl. Imitation gold. Worthless. Suddenly he’s wrestling a new anxiety. His father’s watch! Left it out on the washstand asking to be taken! He climbs the stairs without hope, sees at once that his room has been disturbed – his mattress shifted, the wardrobe emptied, gobs of pink spittle on the floor. And amid the clutter of toiletries on the washstand there is a noticeable absence. No gleam of gold-plate. He slumps down on the bed, quite prepared to wallow in self-pity.

  Later, without bothering to clean up the mess, hoping it will be an explanation in itself, he goes to wait in the salon. Not for the first time he wishes there was a dictionary in the house. His familiarity with the jargon of pee-kay is all very well, but right now he would prefer to know a little more basic French. For instance, the word for ‘thief’.

  By the time he hears her key in the front door he has their meeting rehearsed. But then she’s standing in the hallway with a baffled look and all he can do is stand solemnly with dangling hands. She bends over the embroidered linen and crystal decanters, the show-possessions of the Cordier household, trying to understand. Why are they out? What has he been doing with them?

  Not until he has brought her through to her kitchen does she grasp that she’s been robbed. At the sight of the empty bag tears well in her eyes. ‘Soldat,’ he tells her, and: ‘Pantalon rouge.’ She subsides onto her clothes-chest, apparently oblivious. He would like to more fully exonerate himself, but is unsure of the phrase ‘my father’s watch’.

  That she’s wobbling on the brink of collapse doesn’t escape him: the rigid way she folds her hands, her immobile face, suddenly so drained of colour. And then she springs up without explanation and goes out the back door, snatching the scythe from where it leans
against the wall. He follows her a little but stops at the well. She vanishes into the roses, her progress marked by a shaking and thrashing of foliage. Then she’s up on the embankment, swinging at the grass. But her mowing is erratic, not her usual smooth and mechanical sweep. And when she flings the implement and drops down he’s not surprised. Mostly her weeping is silent, or overwhelmed by the furore of frogs. But he sees. Sees her defeatedness, her desolation. Sees an ageing woman with no family and only slightly more resources than himself.

  For the second evening running he cooks, tonight a tasteless white stew of potatoes and turnips. When it has been ready for twenty minutes and still she hasn’t come in he takes it off the fire and ventures out into the dusk. She hasn’t moved – a fading figure on the fading embankment. He moves quietly through the clawing roses and only when he’s within feet of her does she look up with glistening eyes. He sits beside her and she doesn’t object to his encircling arm, nor to the press of his mouth on her forehead.

  The evening is delineated by food and a shrinking candle. Otherwise there is silence and the usual stained crockery, and flies puddling in spilt stew. More than once she yawns. Without the help of wine, and with an opportunist’s qualms, Harry reaches for her hand, runs his fingertips over her knuckle. There’s a tremor in his thighs.