Can I come with you on the next flower heist?
A few moments later, he slid it back to me.
YES!
It was a week later. Owen planned to flood the entire newsagent with flowers. We left the bookshop around 4 am, visiting nearby houses and parks he’d scoped out on a map. Each of us held a large garbage bag.
We moved quickly through the streets, barely seeing what we were cutting. We judged often by the feel of them. Giant kangaroo paws, fat roses. We all got pricked by thorns.
Our last stop was the house that backed onto the bookshop. By then, dawn was creeping up on us. The place looked like a forest, with many trees and paths made of sliced repurposed tree rounds. Frangipani filled the front yard, overburdened by blooms of white-yellow, pinky-yellow and deep crimson. Our fingers became sticky with the sap the flowers excreted. Owen clipped whole branches. He then pointed towards the gate by the side of the house. We spied more colourful trees in the backyard.
There were two colossal magnolia trees, with pink flowers bigger than our hands. The trees had shed an ankle-deep carpet of petals. Only the garden beds, the area around a chicken coop and a small vegetable garden had been raked clean. Alexander and Owen cut all the blooms they could reach. We went quickly. The chickens chirped their morning welcome as we left.
Finally, we came to the newsagent. Owen showed us his key.
‘How’d you get that?’
He just winked and let us in. We made the store a garden. Flowers were filed with magazines, propped up among newspapers and woven into signs. Flowers with sap were left on counters that could be wiped clean. We left one magnolia flower on the welcome mat.
‘Won’t she get in trouble if her boss sees this?’ I asked.
‘Boss’s away. She’s it till next week.’
Later that day, we had two visitors. One was her, Owen’s crush. She came in with a frangipani flower behind her ear, invited Owen outside. Alexander and I peeked at them kissing. The second visitor came later, a plump middle-aged Asian woman. By this time, Owen and Alexander had left for the day. I’d done my regular chores, spoken to Serafin, and was now re-shelving a section of rare children’s books.
I greeted the woman. She looked at my belly, not me, and gave it a smile. She made her way to Old Man Summers, who had his feet up on a desk piled with invoices.
‘Yes?’ he said.
‘Your employees came to my house this morning and stole many flowers,’ she said. I expected her voice to be soft, like her movements, but it was confident. She had a very refined, almost English accent. ‘The bandits left particularly gruesome cuts on my magnolia trees.’
Old Man Summers put his book down. ‘You saw them?’
‘Yes. There was a dark boy, a fair lad with wavy brown hair, and the pregnant girl sorting books over there.’
‘But you didn’t apprehend them?’
‘I am the wife of a disabled war veteran,’ she said. ‘I am not going outside at dawn to confront people stealing from my yard.’
‘It’s not my business what my employees do when they aren’t working here,’ Old Man Summers said. Bored, he picked up his book again.
The woman plucked it from his hands.
‘Sir, let me be clear. You are to send your employees to my house with an apology and some offer of compensation. I would suggest gardening assistance for a time I deem appropriate,’ she said. ‘It would be most unfortunate if I needed to contact the authorities, especially if they felt the need to examine not only the misbehaviour of what are, essentially, your wards, but also the dubious ways in which you procure your wares.’
Old Man Summers smiled, impressed. ‘I’ll send the little buggers to you as soon as the boys get back.’
She nodded her thanks.
‘You may keep the book, madam.’
She glanced at its spine, then placed it back on his desk. ‘Sadly, sir, I don’t have time for bad literature.’
Like that, she left. Old Man Summers laughed.
‘Touché, madam!’ he called after her.
When Alexander and Owen returned, we were sent to this woman’s house like naughty children. She sat on her front porch, under a pink frangipani tree that now looked lopsided.
‘Good afternoon, children.’
Owen stiffened. ‘I’m twenty-one.’
‘My. A few decades ago you’d have been on the front or in a foreign grave. Instead, you steal flowers from old women.’
Owen shrunk.
‘We’d like to offer our sincere apologies for stealing your flowers,’ Alexander said. ‘We shouldn’t have taken so many.’
‘You shouldn’t have taken any, boy.’
Alexander nodded quickly. ‘You’re right. I’m so sorry. We’re so sorry.’
I followed, mimicking his rapid, apologetic nods. Owen was next, all of us nodding like parrots.
‘You’ll make amends by assisting in my garden,’ she said. ‘You’ll come every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday morning at 7 am for an hour until I deem the damage to be repaired. If you have any problems with this arrangement, I suggest you speak to your employer Mr Summers.’
Gardening with Mrs Li became part of our routine. Alexander was given the job of cleaning out the chicken coop and fetching eggs. When he finished, he joined Owen in raking the magnolia petals and weeding the paths. Mrs Li gave them simple jobs, ones they couldn’t mess up, and did her own careful pruning alongside them.
Me, I was to ‘supervise the boys’. She insisted I tell them off when they did something wrong. It took me a while, but eventually I learnt what she expected, and had no qualms about telling Alexander not to carry so many eggs at once or pointing out when Owen failed to pull a weed out by its root.
‘If your belly wasn’t so fat, you’d be doing this,’ Owen said.
Mrs Li didn’t speak to us beyond giving instructions. We never saw her husband, though once we heard his sad voice, calling ‘Mary, darling?’ We never went in the house. Not ever.
Old Man Summers, clearly impressed, found a few books in Chinese characters and sent them over with me. Mrs Li handed them straight back.
‘I can’t read this, dear.’
‘Oh, I thought –’
‘I was born here, just like you. As were my parents, and my husband’s parents, and our grandparents before that. Unless your ancestors came on the first boat, my family was probably here before yours,’ she said. ‘We lost the language long ago. Better not to learn it.’
Awkwardly, I asked, ‘Really?’
‘So Mother said.’
I took the books back. A week later, Old Man Summers tracked down a book of fables, poems and plays with stilted English prose and Chinese names. I read it first, and here I found Mulan. When I gave it to Mrs Li, I felt excited, imagining the same response as when I gave Serafin the book of Polish folktales.
She opened it and sighed. ‘I’ve never heard these stories,’ she said. ‘I wonder how accurate they are. Who translated these? Did this English fellow –’ she tapped the name on the front cover ‘– ever visit the country?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I have a daughter like this,’ she said, stopping at the tale of Mulan.
Her tone didn’t suggest that to be a compliment.
‘Oh.’
She gave the book back to me. ‘Keep it for the bookshop. I’m sure someone interested in the Orient will pay good money for it.’
Though she was always kind, she gave little else. I read books to try and know her, ones on Chinese history and legends, forgetting that they held no reference to her. They were just stories which others like me ascribed to her. I read a few books on World War I and II, not sure when her husband served or how old he was. I tried to ask what happened, how he was, but got nothing. I asked her about her daughter, the one like Mulan, but she only offered, ‘She’s a sweet girl, busy,’ then, ‘When’s your due date again, dear? You’re looking so big.’ The direct mention of my pregnancy surprised me. I stopped asking questi
ons.
The truth was, I was getting big.
Talk of adoption began. It was assumed from the outset that I’d be ‘giving the baby up’. It was never my baby, it was the baby. Or it, as Old Man Summers said one night, pointing at me with his fork: ‘It won’t be staying here, of course.’ I was never asked what I wanted to do, not by anyone.
I lie, there was one person. Robert, he asked. We met in the bookshop. I was directing Owen and Alexander where to position the fake holly and tinsel outside the shop, trying to do it through silent hand gestures. Old Man Summers had ordered ‘No decorations, especially not this bloody early!’ so we tried to get them up high while he was napping at his desk. The boys shimmied up the veranda, and were stringing decorations from the eaves.
A young man in a three-piece suit came towards the shop. He stopped to admire our handiwork, when Owen spotted him.
‘Where have you been, Doctor?’ He called from up on the veranda.
‘England,’ he said. ‘My father was ill.’
His hair was curly and very black; no silver had crept in yet. He was so well dressed he seemed out of the time, out of the weather, which was so hot it felt like you were wading through the air as you walked.
‘Hope the old fella’s alright.’
The doctor offered a polite smile. ‘Bless him. He refuses to die.’
Owen made his way down, then helped Alexander.
‘Dr Stewart,’ Owen introduced. ‘Alexander, Lizzy.’
The doctor shook our hands, insisting, ‘Robert, please.’
We answered, ‘Nice to meet you, sir.’ Though he was only ten or twelve years our senior, he seemed mature, like he’d crossed that line into adulthood we had yet to reach.
‘We still have those first editions you requested,’ Owen said.
‘Oh, marvellous!’
Inside, Old Man Summers was woken by the bell. When he saw the doctor, he snapped, ‘Well! Where’ve you been?’
Robert smiled, clearly familiar with the old man’s demeanour. ‘England, sir. Visiting family.’
‘For that bloody long?’
‘Only a month, sir, but before my trip my brother had rather misbehaved so I swore I wouldn’t buy him any more books.’
‘Your brother behaving now then?’
‘No, but I thought it best not to be angry with him for too long.’
‘Lucky brother, you have.’
‘Quite.’
Old Man Summers opened the glass cabinet and fetched three books. ‘You know, there’s a holding fee.’
‘Of course, sir. Your price?’
‘Fifty dollars.’
‘Forgive me, I still struggle with this new decimal currency. You quoted me twenty pounds for all three.’
‘Yes.’
‘The conversion rate is two dollars to the pound, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘You are not. Ten dollar holding fee.’
The doctor sighed. ‘Of course.’
He handed over a pile of folded notes.
‘Give your brother our regards,’ Old Man Summers said as he handed over the books.
‘I always do.’
I expected that to be the last time we saw him, that this expense was some one-off splurge, but Robert was back a week later.
‘How’s that brother of yours doing, then?’ Owen asked.
Robert darkened. ‘Well enough.’
Owen wasn’t even sure the brother existed. No one had actually met him. Nothing was known about him, except that he had a fondness for old books and was something of a troublemaker.
One day, I found Robert sorting through some crumbling tomes. He pulled out a copy of On the Origin of Species.
‘This is stamped State Library Stock,’ he said to me.
‘One of their discards!’ Old Man Summers called out.
Robert smiled, unconvinced, but took the book and paid for it nonetheless. At the counter, he spotted something in the glass cabinet.
‘My God, is that …?’
Old Man Summers squinted at the shelf. ‘Spit it out, man.’
‘Frostiana.’
‘Oh yes.’ Old Man Summers opened the cabinet, lifted out a small book. ‘1814.’
Robert put his hand out to take the book. Old Man Summers did not oblige.
‘One hundred dollars.’
It was clear from his expression that he’d heard perfectly. Yet still, he said, ‘Pardon?’
‘A hundred dollars is reasonable. Printed on the ice at the last ever frost fair in London. Just a handful of these left in the world.’
Robert’s hand didn’t move. Old Man Summers still wouldn’t give up the book.
‘This is a rather obscure book, Doctor.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It has eluded me.’
Old Man Summers put the book back in the cabinet. ‘Perhaps it will elude you again. One hundred and twenty dollars. The price will continue to rise. Best make up your mind quickly.’
Robert’s eyes lingered on the book for a moment but then he turned for the door. Despite his annoyance, he rushed to help me as he spotted me carrying a pile of books.
‘You shouldn’t be doing this in your state,’ he said, taking them. He then called behind him. ‘Mr Summers, this young lady shouldn’t be doing any heavy lifting.’
Old Man Summers just held his book up to his face, ignoring him.
I showed Robert where the books belonged. He started shelving them for me. I wanted to stop him, but was so tired, I just let him. I made an attempt at conversation.
‘Your brother likes expensive books then?’
‘Yes,’ Robert said. He quickly moved onto something else. ‘When are you due, miss?’
‘Ah, I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Soon I imagine.’
‘Your doctor hasn’t given you a due date?’
‘I haven’t seen any doctors.’
He looked alarmed. ‘You haven’t seen …? No one?’
‘No,’ I said, a little embarrassed.
He took out his business card, handed it to me. ‘I’m an obstetrician. Come to my consulting rooms. Just to check everything is alright.’
‘I don’t have any money.’
‘I can waive payment if you sneak me a good book.’
‘I heard that!’ Old Man Summers yelled.
I must have looked aghast. Robert smiled and said, ‘Don’t worry, it was a joke. Come after 5 pm. I’m in the office late, unless there’s a delivery.’
I just nodded.
‘Perhaps you’d reduce the price of Frostiana if I care for your granddaughter, sir,’ Robert called back to Old Man Summers.
‘Not my granddaughter, not my problem,’ Old Man Summers shouted. ‘And it’s one hundred and forty dollars once you walk out.’
Robert paused, but only for a second. The bell on the door tinkled as he left. I looked at his card for a long time.
I was nervous about seeing him. I was too shy to ask for a lift, so I took the bus and endured the stares. Robert’s rooms were nearby. I could’ve walked if the heat wasn’t so punishing. I arrived around 6 pm, and the sun was still blazing. The door to his rooms, which were in a beautiful colonial house, featured the names of three other men, all obstetricians. It was locked. Though I knocked hard, no one responded.
I thought I heard something, so I peered around the side and noticed a window half open, fine white curtains fluttering in the breeze. I heard voices, faint English accents. Surely one was Robert. I only intended to call through the window, to alert them I was here. But the fabric over the window was so sheer, I could see inside.
Robert was sitting at a desk, making notes. Another man was there, taller, older, surly. He paced around, cracking his fingers.
‘Would you stop doing that please?’ Robert asked tersely.
‘Would you finish, please?’ the man replied.
Robert ignored him. The man sat in the chair opposite the desk. He lent his elbows on Robert’s papers and started cracking his fingers again. They were rough, bu
lbous in parts, like they’d once been badly broken.
‘I’m hungry,’ he said.
‘Go and eat. I have to finish this.’
The man pulled his chair around to Robert, right beside him. Close. ‘Come back to it tomorrow,’ he said.
Robert grunted at him, annoyed. The man started running his fingers tenderly through Robert’s hair. At that angle, I could see the man had a chunk out of his ear and a small but deep scar along the top of his left jaw.
‘Not here,’ Robert growled, and elbowed him away.
The man jumped back. He smiled mischievously, then nipped forward, landing a quick kiss on Robert’s neck. ‘Here?’
Robert batted him away. He went in again, kissed him on the cheek. ‘Here?’
‘Elliot!’
He kissed him on the nose. ‘Here?’
‘Elliot, would you fuck off!’
The man pulled a face, unimpressed. ‘Give me a kiss and I’ll take my book and fuck off then.’
Robert breathed out through his nose, thoroughly annoyed. He relented, giving this man a brief kiss on the lips and then returned to his paperwork. The man smiled, smug but also giddy, happy with even the tiniest affection. He came towards the window, but I was so shocked by the odd intimacy I’d seen, I just stood there.
The man started to say, ‘I won’t have you cursing like –’ But then he saw me. Our eyes met. Then he ran for the door. I moved as fast as I could. He got to the door quickly, and was outside just as I made my way to the front yard. He was quick. He caught up and grabbed me by the arm.
‘Who are you?’
I couldn’t answer, I was so frightened.
‘What are you doing?’ I heard behind him. It was Robert.
Elliot dragged me around to face him.
‘Lizzy,’ Robert said, his voice suddenly soft. ‘You came for an appointment.’ Then, harshly, ‘Elliot, let her go, for goodness’ sake! She’s a girl!’
‘She saw,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘She was looking in the window.’
Robert changed. He was suddenly cautious, almost afraid.
‘The front door was locked,’ I said quickly. ‘I didn’t see anything.’
The two men looked at me and then each other.
The History of Mischief Page 29