by Paul Howarth
“There now, darling,” Mrs. Sullivan said. “The boys are probably tired.”
Sullivan looked at her along the table, took another sip of wine, raised a hand, and said, “Aye, I know. I just get carried away. Those Macquarie Street bastards aren’t fit to shine my shoes.”
“No, it’s interesting,” Billy said. “I never heard it put like this before.”
“See?” Sullivan said, gesturing to his wife. She flicked her eyes to Tommy, smiled faintly, sliced her beef. Straight-backed and formal, the cutlery inverted in her hands, a delicate kind of grip that Tommy had tried to mimic but could not.
“It’s all about control, Billy. First time they landed here they stuck a flag in a beach and claimed the whole lot, but what does a fella on the coast know about us out here? Crown Land, they call it. Crown Land. This isn’t Crown Land any more than I’m the bloody queen—can you imagine good old Vic clearing a paddock or roping a bull?”
Billy laughed at that. He took a sip of wine.
“See, they let the pioneers have it first-off. Anyone who made it this far out and survived could take whatever land they bloody liked. Blokes like my grandfather—it was the only way. But now the hard work’s been done, they try and tell you none of this is ours, or we’re borrowing it, or we’re only allowed so much . . . it’s Crown Land, Billy, whatever the hell that means.”
Tommy said, “Daddy thought everyone should be allowed his share.”
Sullivan’s gaze slid across the table. “But you see not everyone’s cut out for it. Running livestock’s harder than it looks.” He stabbed his fork into a piece of meat, put it in his mouth, and sat there chewing, waiting for Tommy’s reply.
“Drought can’t be helped, though. Or disease, or anything like that.”
Sullivan smiled at him. “Them that know how can still do alright.”
Tommy ate another potato. He felt Sullivan’s stare. Their cutlery tinkled the plates. The candles flickered and smoked. Mrs. Sullivan cleared her throat and said to the table, “The fillet’s nice, don’t you think? And the wine matches very well.”
No one responded. Tommy was aware of Sullivan mouthing something to Billy, then Billy leaned forward, into the light of the chandelier, and said, “John’s going to help us. Leaving tomorrow, he thinks.”
Tommy looked up sharply. “Leaving? Where?”
“To find Joseph. He’s sent word to Noone.”
Sullivan smiled as he drank. Mrs. Sullivan lowered her head.
“We never decided,” Tommy whispered to Billy. “Sleep on it, he said.”
“We did sleep on it.”
“You and me never spoke.”
“Billy and I discussed it,” Sullivan said. “Came up with a suitable plan. The telegram’s already gone to Inspector Noone, telling him what’s happened; he’ll get here when he can. Of course they might not be at their barracks, in which case it’ll be a couple of days, but all being well tomorrow, assuming the inspector comes.”
Tommy looked between the two of them. “But . . . what about Mary? She needs a proper doctor—that vet’s not doing her any good. She’s getting worse up there.”
“I’ll send for Dr. Shanklin. He can see to her while we’re gone.”
“And you could stay here with her,” Billy said. “You don’t even have to come.”
“It’s not about me coming or not.”
“So what’s it about, then?”
“I don’t know. You and me should have decided.”
“He killed them, Tommy. What’s there to decide?”
“I do think it’s for the best, son,” Sullivan said.
“What happens when we find him? What’ll we do then?”
Sullivan shrugged. “That’s police business. I leave it to Noone.”
Tommy glanced at Mrs. Sullivan. She was sitting with her eyes down and her hands folded in her lap, like she had simply drifted out of the conversation, or was lost in her own thoughts.
“This is horseshit,” Tommy said. He pointed at Billy. “This ain’t for you to choose.”
“Actually, it’s not just about the two of you either,” Sullivan told him. “What happened concerns the whole district, of which I am patron, which carries a weight of its own. These Kurrong bastards, they’ve been coming at us for years, won’t learn their bloody place. The other blacks round here have either left or joined the Missions or gone to the camps: they’ve accepted the situation, moved on. But the Kurrong are stubborn, don’t know when they’re beat. I’ve got plenty of the buggers already and still they keep coming back, going after my cattle, my water, even caught them doing dances on my own bloody land. And now this, killing whites in their own home—it’s an act of war, boys, we can’t let it stand. If we don’t retaliate, if we don’t impose the law, well, we might as well pack up and run back to the coast tomorrow at first light.”
Tommy looked from Sullivan to Billy, who held his steady stare.
“Your brother agrees with me,” Sullivan said. “The least we can do for your family is find those responsible for this outrage and see to it that they hang.”
Tommy lowered his eyes to the plate, now awash in watery blood. He tried to go on eating but found that he could not, so he set his cutlery together and waited for the others to finish their meal. Sullivan began talking about the colonies again, Billy following his every word, while at the other end of the table Mrs. Sullivan said nothing at all. She caught Tommy staring and briefly smiled, then dabbed her napkin to her lips, her jewelry sparkling in the candlelight, folded the napkin on the table, and sat listening to her husband talk.
When all were finished, Sullivan rang a handbell and a native houseboy came into the room. “You can clear now, Benjamin,” Sullivan said.
The houseboy was dressed in a shabby livery of white shirt and red waistcoat and must have been well into his middle age. He moved stiffly around the place settings, gathering up the plates, stacking them in one hand and laying the cutlery on top. The table waited silently. Sullivan poured himself more wine and drank, watching the houseboy as he worked.
“You shouldn’t ever talk business or politics in front of them, Billy. They understand more than they let on—isn’t that right, Benjamin?”
At the sound of his name the houseboy hesitated, gave a small nod, went on.
“I make them wait down the hall so they can’t listen in. It pays to be wary, I don’t care who they are. Benjamin here’s been with us for years, and I still don’t trust the bastard an inch.”
He spluttered a short laugh, took another sip of wine. The houseboy had now reached Tommy’s place and was collecting his cutlery and plate.
“Some like to keep their boys in the room while they eat. Can you imagine? Who wants to look at that over dinner, or smell him—can you smell him, Tommy? The bastards have a stink that’s all their own.”
“John, please,” Mrs. Sullivan said.
Sullivan ignored her. As if she hadn’t spoken. He waved a hand and went on laughing, and when his plate had been cleared and Tommy lifted his eyes, he saw that Billy was laughing too.
* * *
He lost them after dinner. Returned from the outhouse to find the dining room empty, the chairs askew, napkins on the table, and a seam of wax dribbling down the candelabra and pooling on the tablecloth. Tommy backed into the atrium and stood listening. Faint kitchen clatter but otherwise the house was silent, every door closed. He went to the drawing room, the only other room he knew, and put his ear against the paneled wood. Nothing. He opened the door anyway. Mrs. Sullivan was standing alone by the decorated tree, one hand toying with the baubles, the other holding a thimble glass of liquor. She smiled when she saw him, waved him into the room.
“Come in, Tommy. Come in. Don’t be shy now. I won’t bite.”
“I was looking for Billy.”
“John has him. I thought he had you too . . . but come in, close the door.”
He shuffled forward. Unsure where to put himself, unsure where to look. She was still i
n her dinner dress, cream-colored and very tight, corseted, and her hair had unraveled from its nest of curls and tumbled around her face. Her cheeks were freshly rouged, or perhaps she was flushed from the fire behind her, or whatever was in the little glass.
“Have you seen this yet?” she asked him, meaning the tree. “They’re all doing it in England these days. Even the queen has one. Isn’t it just marvelous?”
“What’s it for?” Tommy asked.
“Sorry? What do you mean?”
“Why’ve you got it? A tree in your house?”
There was pity in her smile, warmth too. “Oh, Tommy, it’s a Christmas tree—have you never heard of a Christmas tree before?”
Timidly he shook his head.
“The idea is that you decorate it, hang balls and presents and all sorts of things. Here—would you like to try one of these?”
She picked off a parcel and held it out for him to take. Oval-shaped, wrapped in a purple paper twist. Tommy opened it and found a yellow boiled sweet, hesitated, then popped it into his mouth and sucked.
The lemon flavor burst on his tongue. Sour and sweet all at once. Lemon had always been Mary’s favorite; Tommy usually preferred butterscotch, but he wouldn’t have swapped the lolly for the world.
“You like it? Is it good?”
“Really good.”
“Well, help yourself. There are plenty, and that’s what they’re for. It’s silly of me really, doing all this when there’s no children around, but we had one at home, so . . .”
“What kind of tree is it?”
“Spruce. You don’t get them here. I had it brought up especially. Where I’m from, down in Victoria, there are whole mountains covered with these kinds of trees. They like the cold, see, and in winter we’d even get snow high up in the hills. Daddy would take us tobogganing; it really was the most wonderful thing.” She sipped at her drink. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen snow?”
“In a picture book once. Like feathers in the sky.”
She smiled and touched her cheek. “Well, yes, I suppose it almost is.”
Tommy sucked on the lolly, Mrs. Sullivan watching him, the upright clock ticking with each pendulum swing and the fire spitting its embers onto the hearth. A new log was struggling to take, the wood mostly ashen in the grate.
“Have you always lived here, Tommy? Around here, I mean?”
“Yeah,” he said, shrugging.
“You’re lucky. I mean, I know this is a terrible time for you, but at least you’re where you’re supposed to be. I’ve gone from snow in winter to seasons of dust and heat; city trams to no roads at all. You have to be born to it, I think. I don’t know how you all stand it here, but somehow you do.”
“You don’t like it, then?”
“No, I don’t.” She leaned close and lowered her voice to a whisper. “But don’t tell John I said that. He thinks this place is paradise.”
“So why’d you come? Why not leave?”
She inclined her head ruefully. “You mean it, don’t you—you really are that naive. It’s adorable, actually. But you must have wondered about us, or your parents must have talked? Everyone in the district knows. Besides, it’s obvious—I’m closer to you in age than I am to John.”
“Daddy didn’t like us talking about Mr. Sullivan at home.”
“Well, that’s very polite of him. And I’ve not been here so long, I suppose: we only married last year, the same day I turned eighteen. John wants a son, you see, is desperate for one, in fact, and his first wife, Jacqueline, well, she wasn’t up to the job. His freemartin, he calls her—can you imagine! So he moved her on quietly and came down to Melbourne looking for a new wife . . . and, lo and behold, found me!”
She spread her arms when she said this. Her neck had reddened, her cheeks too, and her voice had become harsh. Tommy went to speak but she waved her hand to silence him.
“Oh, don’t worry, there’s nothing to be done, it’s just the way of the world. Think yourself lucky you’re a man, that’s all I can say. John bought me off my father no different than a cow. I’m his prize breeder now, Tommy, that’s what I am. A breeder meant to give him a son.”
She drained her drink and went to the table, laughing as she poured. When she turned around again she was damp-eyed and her lips ticked from grin to grimace and back again.
“And so,” she said shakily, sipping, “here I am, waiting to breed, stuck where I don’t belong. Which is bad enough but now . . . now there’s a war coming, these blacks killing families right here in their homes.” She crossed herself. “In Melbourne they wouldn’t have dared—I don’t mean to sound callous, talking like this when you’ve suffered so much, but this problem with the natives: it’s all of ours, Tommy, John’s right about that. If this is what they’re capable of, none of us is truly safe.”
She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed carefully at her eyes. Tommy crunched the lolly and ground it between his teeth, glancing at the door and the chance to leave.
“I know this must seem overwhelming, but John’ll take care of you, and your brother and sister. He’s not such a bad man. Do you go to church, Tommy?”
“Not really. Ma did sometimes.”
“No, John doesn’t either. He’s quite scornful about it, actually. But he has his principles, which is something. He’ll see that you’re alright.”
“Him and Daddy didn’t exactly get along.”
“Well, John doesn’t have what you’d call friends. But you’re our neighbors, and didn’t your father used to work here, I believe?”
“Once. A long time ago.”
“Still . . .”
“They didn’t see things the same. About the blacks, Noone.”
She shook her head. “Which only makes this all the more tragic.”
There was a silence. Tommy took a breath and said, “What he was saying at dinner, though, about going out after Joseph and them Kurrong . . . maybe if you spoke to him he might change his mind about that, see if we couldn’t—”
Tommy stalled. Her eyes had hardened and her lips were drawn tight.
“I think perhaps you misunderstand me, Tommy. I might not approve of how John speaks to the houseboy, but he’s my husband, I stand at his side. These natives, from what I’ve seen, they’ve been given every opportunity and still they refuse to change. Work, education, we’ve tried to civilize them but the savagery is in their blood. I’ve even heard they eat their own young, for heaven’s sake. And yet they’re all around us, we have them in our house! There’s knives in the kitchen, firearms . . . most of them are as familiar with a rifle as they are with a spear. Honestly, it’s terrifying. In fact, I wish there were a hundred Mr. Noones out there, Tommy, making sure that we’re safe.” She shook her head determinedly. “No, justice must be done, then perhaps the wretches might think twice about attacking a white family again. Surely you of all people cannot disagree?”
“No,” Tommy mumbled.
“Well, good. I’m glad to hear it.” She stepped a pace closer and delicately lifted his chin with her fingertip. “Look at you, you’re exhausted, poor thing. It’s no wonder you’re not thinking straight. Why not go up to bed, get a good night’s rest?”
“Alright.”
“God bless you, then.”
He nodded faintly, backtracked, hurried across the room, then paused in the doorway and turned.
“Thanks for the lolly. It was really good.”
“My pleasure. Help yourself. Anytime.”
“We should save some for Mary. For when she wakes up.”
“We’ve a jar in the pantry big enough she could sleep a whole year.”
“A year?”
“I didn’t mean—” Again she smiled at him. “Good night, Tommy.”
“Good night.”
He was asleep when Billy came into their bedroom, but was woken by the door latch and the noise of his brother stumbling about, trying to get himself undressed. Tommy lay still, facing the wall, blinking into the d
arkness, then closing his eyes when he felt Billy at the bedside, standing over him, a smell of smoke and grog.
“Tommy? You awake?”
He didn’t answer. Billy nudged his shoulder, Tommy let himself be nudged. Billy grumbled something, then went to his own bed; Tommy listened to him thrashing before he fell still and his breathing slowed and began its familiar ticking sound. Both stayed in their own beds that night, the first time they’d slept apart in their lives.
14
He rode up the track in a fury of hooves and dust, longcoat flaring, a winged and dark silhouette against the sun-bleached soil.
Noone.
Tommy watched from Mary’s bedroom, cowering beneath the sill, wide eyes peering through the bottom windowpane. He watched him ride full gallop almost to the steps, bringing the horse up so hard it reared its head and bared its teeth; he watched him dismount and hand off the reins to the waiting stableboy, then climb emu-like up the stairs, long legs reaching out before him, two or three steps at a time, the body upright and static, a long body, the proportions all wrong, nothing on the bones. Fluid and agile, no stiffness in him, not a stockman’s gait. As he reached the top of the stairs Tommy rose with the angle, but soon lost him beneath the verandah roof, the tread of his boots sounding on the boards, then voices, Sullivan greeting him at the door.
Tommy hurried around the bed, Mary lying there just the same as yesterday, and the day before that. Out into the hall and along to the balcony landing, where he crouched behind the balustrades and saw Billy standing stiffly in the atrium below, his hands crossed behind his back and his eyes fixed on the front door.
Tommy whistled to him. Billy found him among the rails.
“What you doing?” Tommy whispered.
“Meeting him. Noone. John said to wait here.”
“What for?”
“Give our account of what happened.”