The Cartographer

by Peter Twohig

  I stopped and took a sip of my creamy soda. This was good creamy soda. I bet it would be even better with a dash of Gilbey’s in it, I thought.

  ‘What a wonderful adventure,’ said Mrs Sanderson. ‘We don’t think we’ve ever met a more interesting young man than you. Have you always lived in this neighbourhood?’

  ‘Yeah, all my life.’

  ‘And you go to which school?’

  ‘St Felix’s.’

  ‘Help yourself to some more cake, you look like you’re enjoying it.’

  My plan was working: I was starting to relax, to feel that right in the middle of the world of trouble and fright I lived in I had found an oasis. I looked around and took in the living room: red carpet with a Persian pattern, thick curtains with little ropes to tie them up, a clock that ticked away as if it might stop with every tick, but didn’t, unlike ours, which was the same size but ticked as if it was daring you to try and stop it. There was a huge mirror with a polished wooden frame and a large brass pot full of lilies and embossed with flowers. There was a little round table with two chairs and a checkers board built into it. All over it were wooden playing pieces, some of them shaped like castles, and some of them like horses — I noticed that there were two black horses but only one white one. There were lamps all over the place — five in fact. And I noticed, looking at the ceiling, that there were no ceiling lights, but there were three gas light fittings folded back against the walls that would never be used again — all of the old homes I had been into had those. There was a gigantic fireplace with a mantelpiece covered in old brown photos and little statues. I counted six photos and three statues. And there was a piano with the word ‘Wertheim’ written on the front in gold, same as the one at our place, only newer. Finally, there were two bone ashtrays in shiny metal stands shaped like slender naked women with their hands above their heads.

  When I looked back at the Sandersons, they were both looking at me with very gentle eyes.

  ‘You know,’ said Mr Sanderson, ‘I’ll bet if I asked you to close your eyes and name every object in this room, you could.’

  That was such a new idea, I had to think about it for a moment. But he was right, and I nodded.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that’s what I thought. That’s a rare gift, you know. Most people would have to be trained to do that, and you can already do it. You like to walk, don’t you, you and Biff?’

  ‘Yes, we go everywhere together, me and Biff.’

  They looked at each other.

  ‘You have the air of a natural explorer, an enquiring gentleman. You never ask questions, yet your eyes ask questions ceaselessly. Am I right?’

  He was. He knew all about me, yet didn’t frighten me. This was not the Mr Sanderson I was used to, but it was okay. I nodded slowly and Mrs Sanderson sipped her tea.

  ‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you knew everything that went on in this neighbourhood — hmmm?’

  ‘Prob’ly.’

  ‘Tell me — and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to — do you know what happened in this house before Mrs Sanderson and I came to live here?’

  I took a bite of my cake. It might as well have been tripe.

  ‘I see. Well, I wish I could say we know all about it, and put your mind at rest, but we don’t.’

  Mrs Sanderson put down her tea. ‘I wonder if …’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mr Sanderson. ‘I suppose we have to ask you this question eventually. We have reason to believe there was a witness to … to what happened in this house. Do you know what a witness is?’

  I was chewing, but nothing was happening.

  ‘Now I want you to think carefully. Remember that you are always safe here: we would never tell anyone anything you tell us, not your parents, not even the police. But we have to know what happened. Were you on the ladder that day?’

  By now I had run clean out of saliva, and stood a good chance of being the first kid in my street to choke on a piece of orange sponge.

  ‘Did you see the man who did … who took my sister’s life?’

  I could not talk. I had to think. Then, as I looked into their eyes, I realised that it was all right. They were talking about Bob. They knew nothing about him, but I knew something about him that nobody knew.

  ‘The man who did that to my sister has never been found. Did you see him?’

  ‘Russell, perhaps —’

  ‘Yes, I did, but I don’t know him.’

  There was the sound of the doorbell.

  ‘Russell, that’s enough for now.’ Mrs Sanderson got up. ‘Actually, we were expecting visitors when you came, and we thought you might be them. Now we can all have a fresh cup of tea and another piece of cake.’

  She went out to the door, and Mr Sanderson said: ‘Our visitor is one of our oldest friends and her son — he’s about your age, but I’m pretty sure you’ll find he goes to a different school.’

  The visitors were shown in and we all stood up while I was introduced to them.

  ‘This is Mrs Palmer, and this is her son, James …’

  Looking back, I wondered why Biscuit had not detected the presence of Wonder Woman on the premises, and killed her on the spot. But then it dawned on me that he had smelt her perfume before — on me — and more than once too, and that was probably what saved her life. Now it was just the Cartographer and his new nemesis.

  ‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ she said, as cool as an ice-block. She reminded me of the Larry Kent episode: ‘Lovely But Cold!’ She was not Wonder Woman just then; she was just Mrs Palmer from South Yarra, and she did not try to control my mind or capture me with her Lasso of Truth — I think because she did not want me to tell the truth just at that moment. She must have been as surprised as I was, but I saw only the merest flicker of her eyes when she noticed me, and I knew what that meant, because Granddad had told me to look for it in the eyes of people we met at the track.

  Granddad and me even had a trick: he would ask a question and look away for a second, so that the punter would think Granddad couldn’t see if he was lying or not, and would let his guard down. Meanwhile, I would look at the punter’s eyes. If they flickered I would sniff. I sniffed when I met Mrs Palmer, but I admit I didn’t have to, as I could see she was surprised; no, I sniffed because she smelt like a million bucks — make that two.

  As for her son, James, he and I hit it off instantly. I felt that I had known him for ages, having seen his picture on the piano at his house and having even pretended to be him for a few minutes — nothing brings you closer to another person than putting yourself in his shoes, Granddad says: that’s how you know which way the punter’s going to bet. Well, you know what I’m trying to say.

  James had no friends on my side of the river, he said, and wanted to tell me all about his school, Royals, and his friends, and, of course, his toys. As far as I could see, we had two things in common, apart from being boys. He had a large collection of comics, superior to mine in number, but not in the selection offered. He did not, for example, have any Combat, The Sarge or Fightin’ Gyrene comics. But he did have an extraordinary range of Classic Comics, including a few I had never heard of, such as A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, Two Years Before the Mast and The Black Arrow, which I just had to have. And we both liked the same radio and TV programs.

  Mrs Palmer left James and me to get on with boys’ business: the business of going outside and visiting young Biscuit. Biscuit was not good company, as he had a bone, and James had to be content with my assurances that he could rescue people from rivers — I showed him the photo on the Sandersons’ fridge — rescue people from burning buildings, and jump up and tear the limbs off thugs who were escaping on horses. After James saw the photo the rest was easy. People believe what they want to believe, said Granddad. And I had never seen anyone who wanted to believe as badly as James. He was keen on dogs and wanted to pat Biscuit, or Biff, which was the name Biscuit went under that day. But Biscuit would only growl at James, which was kind of
him, as it tended to validate my stories.

  James was all right, I thought. I decided to keep an eye on him and if he had the correct qualifications, recommend him for membership in the Commandos. I hoped he might be able to help us with our money-printing because we still hadn’t got it right. Of course, I would have to devise a suitable initiation. That would be half the fun.

  The Palmers could only stay for a short while, but Mrs Palmer said she would like me to come and visit for lunch one day, and suggested I give James a call to find out when would be a good time. She wrote down the phone number for me, and I noticed that she left off the address. She said: ‘Let’s go to Downyflake in the city — if we’re lucky, we might see Graham Kennedy broadcasting from there.’ And off she went, with a pretty wave and a laugh, as if she had never heard of Wonder Woman.

  Back in the living room, Mr Sanderson said he would like to give me a present, and I could see that they had been talking about me. It was a book, called simply Kim, but the big surprise was that it was by Rudyard Kipling, the same guy who wrote If. I opened it at the beginning and began to read. It was alive with strange words and expressions, but it immediately got inside me and held me spellbound, the way Wonder Woman had done.

  ‘I think you’ll find that you and Kim have a few things in common,’ said Mr Sanderson. ‘Anyway, you can have it and read it at your leisure. It must be getting close to teatime for you.’

  I must have hesitated, because he added: ‘Something’s wrong, isn’t it?’

  There was, of course. Mum and Granddad somehow knew that I was involved in the bashing of Bob Herbert, just how I didn’t know, but I was sure of it; I saw it in their faces. I still didn’t know what that was going to lead to. Then there was that damn photo in The Sun. The Sandersons had seen it, and they didn’t even strike me as Sun readers — Age readers, yes. Bob, on the other hand, did strike me as a Sun reader – that was probably how he’d tracked me down at school. Then there was this thing with the cop; it had been too close for comfort. All in all, I felt that Mr S had hit the nail on the head.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Mrs Sanderson, taking over. It was like watching a tag-team match where the contestants all wear slippers. ‘Is there a problem at home? Is that why you came over? If there is, perhaps we can help. If you like, I could have a word with your parents for you. They might let you stay with us for the night. Would you like that?’

  I had to admit that was an excellent idea, all except the bit about Mrs Sanderson meeting Mum. I wasn’t sure how that would go over. But when Mum came to the door, she seemed to think that wasn’t a bad idea, and Granddad, who was still there, agreed. It was all a bit strange. I grabbed my pyjamas and a few other things and headed off with them. My explorer’s bag and my victuals were still on the island, where I’d dropped them when I tried to save Biscuit, but I reckoned they’d be safe until tomorrow. The Sandersons’ place was huge compared to my place, and I had a large room with a bed that was much bigger than mine: it was the bedroom for no one in particular, the bedroom that faced the window of the Honey Warm and Hungry girl next door.

  We watched TV until late, and as I could watch anything I liked we watched O.S.S., which was about spies in the war. For a while I completely forgot about Wonder Woman, and stopped worrying about the coincidence of her appearance at the Sandersons’ house. I thought that the Sandersons were probably the nicest people I had ever met and could see why Mum and Granddad had seemed quite happy to go along with their idea. Come to think of it, I think they would have gone along with any idea the Sandersons might have had.

  That night I was pretty pleased with myself: I honestly believed that my troubles were over — that’s what a nice hot meal, a bubble bath, a good TV show and a clean, comfortable bed will do for you. That was the Tom part of me thinking. The other part had a bad feeling.

  21 Wanderlust goes south

  After that night at the Sandersons’, I changed my mind about leaving home. The Sandersons said that I could always stay at their place if I felt like it, and I said that I would like that very much. But I couldn’t get over how easy it had been for Mrs Sanderson to talk Mum into letting me visit, and I said so.

  ‘Well, it turns out Mr Sanderson and your mother have met before, and it was only necessary to mention his name for Jean to agree.’

  It was funny hearing Mrs S call Mum ‘Jean’, as if she knew her.

  ‘Where did they meet?’

  I expected her to say: ‘Down the butcher’s’ or something, but she only looked hard at her feet, like an Olympic shot-putter who’s just noticed that someone has tied her shoelaces together, then looked me in the eye; but she was giving me the frog mouth, all of which told its own story.

  ‘Mr Sanderson told me they met during the war. That’s going back a bit, isn’t it?’

  ‘It certainly is,’ I said, tempted to do my Stan Laurel impression, but changing my mind at the last second because of the odd look on Mrs S’s face, which hadn’t changed. I knew what it meant. It meant she was telling me the truth, but taking a risk. I’d seen that look in the eyes of a million kids at school when they were swapping comics. Granddad once told me to never let the punters see that look unless I was lying, so I didn’t.

  I knew I wasn’t going to get any more out of Mrs S about that unless I gave her a Chinese burn, and I didn’t think I could get my hands around her wrists, so I gave it a rest. Still, she had given me solid gold intelligence to chew over and bung on the map. Mum and Mr S. Mr S and Mum. Nope, nothing happened. I put it on the back burner, as Granddad was always telling me to do — something’ll turn up.

  The next thing I discovered was that the Sandersons had got a bigger, better typewriter to work with and they now had a spare, the Remington I had used the first time I had been there, and they said that I could use it any time I liked. So I got into the habit of going over there just to type.

  I was now typing my notes for the map and sticking them on when I got home, though I was thinking of bringing the map over to the Sandersons’, simply because it was getting too large to keep secret, and there was often a Commando or two hanging around my place. And besides, Mr Sanderson had told me that I could bring anything over to his place for safekeeping any time and even lock it in my cupboard, which had its own key. In the end he got curious about all the notes I typed up and took home with me.

  ‘Writing your memoirs?’ he asked me one day.

  ‘Making a map,’ I said, distracted, then reddening, because it was supposed to be a secret.

  ‘Ah, the ancient art of the cartographer.’

  I felt like I’d been hit with a cricket bat when he said that.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘A cartographer is a mapmaker. What’s it a map of?’

  ‘Oh, you know, Richmond.’

  ‘And the notes?’

  ‘Just notes about my … explorations.’

  ‘I see,’ he said, and for once I was worried that he really did see.

  But no one except Mum, Granddad and Biscuit had ever seen the map — I didn’t count Mum because she couldn’t have cared less, and I didn’t count Granddad because he knew some of my biggest secrets as it was. As for Biscuit, I don’t know if he was more interested in the map or the Clag: I would have made him swear an oath of secrecy, but I didn’t think he’d take to the cat’s skull. Still, Mr Sanderson’s offer to take things there for safekeeping was tempting, and comforting to know.

  But there were other reasons for going over to the Sandersons’. For one thing they had a room full of books, which is something I had never seen before, except in a library. I would spend hours in that room, with the reading lamp turned on, just reading. The first book I read there was Kim, the one Mr and Mrs S gave me when the Palmers visited, which was about a kid called Kimball O’Hara who was a secret agent. But there were so many books, I just read bits of all of them sometimes, until I struck one that I really liked. I did that because I found that the title of a book was often not enough to go by. For exampl
e, I thought Green Mansions sounded like a really good book, until I started reading it. Then I thought The Scarlet Pimpernel sounded pretty dumb, until I read a bit of it, then I was hooked. That Baroness Orczy was dynamite!

  So usually when I was there I would be either in the library, or in the typing room, or in the jungle out the back with Biscuit, who couldn’t get enough of the place. A few days after Mr S made the offer, I moved the map and my mapping equipment over to the Sandersons’.

  I did go over to Wonder Woman and James’s house the week after they showed up at the Sandersons’, and we did go into the city and have lunch at Downyflake, which turned out to be a restaurant that smelt so good I thought I was never going to smell anything better in my whole life. In fact, I made a mental note on the spot to get out my Spirax notebook as soon as I got home and give it a ten on my Smell Scale. I discovered from my Manual that the scale on a map tells you how small everything is compared to the real thing. My map was about a yard wide, and I reckoned the scale was about 1:1000, which meant that if the map had a thousand sheets, and you lined them up in the middle of Church Street — that would be on a day when the trammies were on strike — they’d stretch all the way to the Richmond Police Station. Smells were the same.

  I had only given a ten to two things before that day: Wonder Woman, in spite of her being my nemesis; and the main bedroom of the Sandersons’ house on the day the Dynamite Dame bought the farm. I had also given a one to something, something Granddad showed me down at Ryrie’s Boxing Gym: smelling salts. One whiff of that stuff, and no matter how half dead you were, you just wanted to get up and hit someone. I know I did. Compared to smelling salts, diarrhoea got a two.