The Day They Shot Edward

by Wendy Scarfe

  ‘Well, well, if it isn’t Matthew and the pretty widow.’ An arm sleeved in cigar-brown wool reached down and picked up the fallen chair. ‘Gran isn’t here today.’

  ‘She’s not, not your gran!’ Matthew shouted. ‘She’s mine. Go away.’

  ‘Matthew, be quiet!’ Margaret hissed. ‘You’re making a scene. He’s upset,’ she said, putting an arm about Matthew and drawing him close. ‘My poor little man. It’s all right for you gentlemen. You’re big and strong but he’s just my little babykins still.’

  ‘Charming,’ the man in the cigar-brown suit murmured. ‘Charming,’ his comments loud enough for Margaret to hear. ‘Mother and child. The perfect Madonna touch. A woman should always be seen with a child. It enhances her,’ he said as he sat with them. ‘Have you ordered?’ Matthew wriggled uncomfortably on his chair. The humorist responsible for his accident had disappeared. His mother and this stranger, whose collar was too tight, smiled at each other across the table.

  His lemonade spider arrived. It bubbled and winked and fizzed coolly. He licked his lips sweet from the misty explosions in his face. The lump of ice cream bobbed up and down as he chased it with his silver spoon. He caught it at the edge of the glass and scooping out little pieces felt them melt in his mouth. He never knew which was nicer—to eat the ice cream with lemonade sauce or squash it so that it dissolved into the drink. He decided to eat some of the ice cream from his spoon and then squash it.

  When it had melted sufficiently he lifted his glass with a little sigh. It wasn’t very interesting just drinking it as he would an ordinary glass of milk. He would have liked a coloured straw. He raised his eyes and noted his mother still smiling at the man. They talked quietly. He thought he heard the man speak Edward’s name. Margaret cast up her eyes in denial and laughed as she reached across the table to play with the sugar spoon. A careless flick and a few grains spattered the man’s fingers spread close to hers about the base of the bowl.

  Matthew pulled his chair closer to his mother’s. In the space left he could see across the room. There was Mr Werther—and Mr Werther saw him too. Matthew waved and Mr Werther nodded and smiled. He got up and bouncing and bobbing between the tables came across the room to Matthew.

  ‘Why, Matthew. My little Schubertianer. How are you today, eh?’

  ‘Mother,’ Matthew tugged her sleeve. ‘Mother, this is Mr Werther. You remember I told you about Mr Werther?’

  ‘Werther.’ The man in the cigar-brown suit frowned. ‘Werther—a German name?’

  Mr Werther nodded. ‘I have been German. Now I am Australian. Many Australians I think were something else once. Some were even crooks. Now isn’t that true?’ And he twinkled as sharply at the man as he had at Miss Pilkington.

  ‘Mr Werther is my headmaster and he plays us music by Schubert. It is very beautiful.’

  ‘German music? You play our children German music?’

  ‘Much great music is German music. You have heard of Beethoven perhaps? Yes?’

  ‘Yes.’ Margaret a little breathless looked from one man to the other. ‘Everyone has heard of Beethoven. But my little babykins, he doesn’t understand who Schubert and Beethoven were. It’s all so silly. Isn’t it really? They’re both dead now. Long before this.’ And she waved her hand towards the procession.

  ‘A lady should not be harassed by a German.’

  ‘Harassed? Who is harassing? The lady is the mother of my pupil. I came to greet her and Matthew. Who is harassing?’

  At other tables people had become interested.

  ‘Great heavens.’ Margaret looked about frantically. ‘Great heavens. This is frightful.’

  ‘Yes, frightful to be so intruded upon. Surely even a Hun can see when a lady is upset. You would like this creature to leave, my dear?’

  ‘No. I. Perhaps …’

  ‘You want him to go, at once, now, don’t you?’ He advanced on Mr Werther, who did not move.

  ‘No. I. Perhaps. Better …’

  ‘But, Mother, Mr Werther is my friend.’

  ‘No, Matthew. He can’t. I’m afraid. Impossible.’

  ‘Hello there. What’s all this?’ And Edward was there, looming over them all. His bulk interposed between Mr Werther and the man in the tight collar.

  ‘Edward,’ said Matthew. ‘This is Mr Werther. They want him to leave. They are being unkind to him.’

  ‘Mr Werther, eh?’ Edward beamed. ‘How do you do? Matthew’s friend and the brave man who will not cross the road. Is that right?’ Mr Werther smiled, a gentle smile, which born in his beard travelled toward his ears where it curled around comfortably and sweetly.

  ‘Who wants him to leave?’

  ‘That man.’ Matthew pointed and stopped. ‘He was next to Mother. He’s gone. He always has a brown suit, Edward, and a tight collar and a tiny tiny laugh. And he asks me questions outside school and at The Stump.’

  ‘Whoa, quietly.’ Edward squeezed his shoulder. ‘He’s just a ubiquitous fellow.’

  ‘What is that?’

  Edward laughed. ‘Someone who seems to turn up everywhere I go. Such fellows are a nuisance but nothing to worry about. Now, Mr Werther, please take a seat. You’d like a piece of cake?’

  Edward pulled out a chair but Mr Werther remained standing.

  ‘Perhaps not.’

  ‘Of course you would. You’d like Mr Werther to join us, wouldn’t you, Margaret?’ He smiled the smile that seemed to embrace all of life in a huge loving hug. Margaret’s glance skittered around the tables. It bounded from face to face. Each watched avidly.

  ‘Of course,’ she whispered faintly. ‘Of course.’ But her eyes looked beseechingly, first at Edward, then at Mr Werther.

  ‘Then that’s all right, isn’t it? Come, Mr Werther, sit down. We’d be honoured.’

  Mr Werther smiled again and put a hand gently on Edward’s arm. ‘No, my friend. Not today. I have things I must attend to.’ He patted Matthew’s head, bowed with courtly courtesy to Margaret and with his usual sparrow hops bobbed between the tables and out of the restaurant.

  ‘How could you, Edward? How could you?’

  ‘How could I what, Margaret?’

  ‘How could you subject …?’

  ‘A fine friend, Matthew. You’re lucky. I wish I had had such a kind teacher. How privileged we are in Australia to attract such gentlemen, such cultured, gentle gentlemen.’

  And Edward looked all around the circle of tables, his voice loud, his smile as tight and tough as the muscled arm with which he sliced himself a piece of chocolate cake.

  Edward escorted them home. Margaret silent, walking quickly; Edward whistling. Matthew ran to keep up. Sometimes he glanced at Edward who grinned and winked.

  ‘Mother, please, I can’t …’

  She yanked at his hand. ‘Don’t argue.’

  ‘I wasn’t. I …’ Edward leaned down and scooped him into his arms, then slid him across his shoulder so he was riding piggyback.

  ‘Whoops,’ Edward called and galloped past Margaret down the road.

  One look and Gran said nothing. Margaret disappeared into her room; ‘To change,’ she said icily. Gran filled the teapot and set out cups.

  ‘What happened to the Lady Sheba at the docks on Saturday night?’ she asked Edward.

  ‘Someone put a couple of bombs on her and up she went like one of Drake’s fire ships. Luckily no one was aboard—the poor fellows would have been incinerated. McCorkell and his police thugs turned up at the Union office the next morning looking for the arsonists.

  ‘There we were, Gran,’ Edward chuckled. ‘Them on one side of the room with their guns and us on the other with our baling hooks. “Shoot just one man, McCorkell,” I told him, “and we’ll spill your guts all over the wharf.”’

  ‘“We want the arsonists!” McCorkell shouted. “The ones who blew up the Lady Sheba last night.”

  ‘“Then go and look for them in the boss’s office,’ I told him. “Everyone knows the owners were broke and wanted the insuranc
e.”

  ‘“You bloody anarchist liar!” he yelled at me.

  ‘I heard my men growl, the pack when it’s threatened. He heard it, too, and backed off. I don’t blame him. I’d rather die from a bullet than a baling hook in my stomach.

  ‘“We’ll get you, Edward Kingsley! We’ll get you! Remember your twelve mates in gaol, who tried to burn Sydney down. We got them. Twenty-five years. You’ll rot like them.”

  ‘“Grr,” I said. “Get!” I couldn’t resist it. I lifted my baling hook and ran at them. They belted for the door and got jammed up trying to beat each other through. I slammed my hook into the door jamb and I’ll swear one of them moaned.’ Edward slapped his hat on the table and roared with laughter. Gran laughed with him. ‘Oh, Edward, it wasn’t wise.’

  He shrugged impatiently. ‘I know, Gran, but I get tired of them bullying. Everywhere I go. They’re there following, pimping, pricking, prying, spying, goading. It’s only human to retaliate sometimes. You should have seen them.’ He laughed again.

  ‘Seen what? What are you two chortling about?’ Margaret sat down at the table.

  ‘Seen poor Matthew fall off his chair.’

  ‘But you weren’t …’

  ‘He told us about it—just now. Right, Matthew?’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said flatly. ‘You and Mother are conspiring again.’ She sounded weary. ‘Great heavens it was hot in town today. I don’t know why I went. I’m exhausted. If only Victor doesn’t cough tonight or have one of his turns. To have a night of uninterrupted sleep. Sometimes I wish, I wish that I could go and sleep under the pittosporum tree and not hear him, never, never, never.’ Her voice rose.

  ‘Ssh, Margaret. Ssh,’ said Gran as Margaret drooped listlessly over her cup of tea. She put her arm around her daughter and shook her head at Edward. Silenced by Margaret’s unhappiness he drank his tea and left.

  The soiree had been wonderful, elegant, refined, the best people … Margaret was ecstatic. Her piano playing had been applauded: ‘Brought a tear to the eye,’ one admirer told her. ‘Such lovely songs from dear old Ireland before the Home Rule traitors spoiled everything.’

  The ladies’ gowns were exquisite, such taste. The embroidery they sold to raise money, the pink satin rosebuds and pressed flower arrangements in padded velvet frames, all, all the epitome of artistry. The household furnishings were unbelievably opulent: velvet chairs, floor-to-ceiling curtains of priceless silks, oriental floor rugs. And silver; the table gleamed and glittered with it.

  The Goodmans had opened their ballroom for the occasion. Mrs Goodman was the ultimate in graciousness. ‘It was like the houses we were welcomed into before Victor dragged us down. It’s dreadful to be so poor. I’m sure such people don’t even notice how prices keep going up.’

  ‘And, Matthew,’ Gran asked, ‘what did you think of your afternoon with the Goodmans?’

  ‘He loved it. Just loved it. Didn’t you, darling?’

  Matthew was used to assenting to his mother’s enthusiasms. He nodded. But he hadn’t really enjoyed the afternoon. It had been tiresome sitting by himself on a chair. Occasionally a gentleman passed and stopped and asked awkwardly, ‘Well, and how are you, young fellow?’ or ‘What’s your name, eh?’ or if it were a lady, ‘What a simply gorgeous little boy. Won’t he break hearts later on? Oh, to be still twenty-five when he’s a man.’ And they would look not at him but at their companions.

  Twice Matthew tried to answer them. He said, ‘Very well, thank you,’ and, ‘My name is Matthew Donahue,’ but they seemed surprised at his answering as if they hadn’t really expected him to speak. He wondered why some adults addressed him as if they wanted a reply then rarely listened to his answers. Edward didn’t do this. Nor did Gran.

  The room was beautiful. When he came in the front door he had been amazed to see the floor patterned in squares and diamonds of reds, greens, purples and golds. But they were not real colours, just reflections which fell in delightful misty streamers from the leadlight windows. For a few seconds they twined about his legs turning them red and purple and he wondered what strange things had happened to his face. He would have liked to look in a mirror. On these windows flowers blossomed and birds sang in the branches of trees but the flowers were stiff, pointed cups and the birds looked like those he had seen dead and stuffed in the museum. He didn’t like things to look alive and not be. It was like telling a lie.

  When he looked up the ceiling seemed miles away. It didn’t have rafters and shadows. It was flat and white and huge. Lights hung, not singly but in circular, tiered groups. On the ceiling above each set of lights patterns of flowers entwined in stiff symmetrical circles. He remembered the pattern on the sandalwood napkin ring Edward had given his mother. That had been like these, flowers twisted together weaving in and out of leaves, but he had liked that. It was wood and the flowers grew from it. It had smelled like outdoors. Not like this. He sniffed. He smelled the sweet light smell of women’s clothes and underneath the sickly, airless odour of confinement, of sweat imperfectly concealed.

  He noticed that none of the ladies did any of the jobs. Special women in white aprons and caps served tea and cakes and sandwiches and passed around cool drinks. At home Mother and Gran dressed differently when they went out and Mother made beautiful dresses but when jobs had to be done they wore the same sort of clothes. He didn’t think that the ladies who moved back and forth in this room or sat to listen to the music with their hands elegantly resting on their laps, their heads slightly inclined, their hair as polished as the floor or the silver on the table, ever changed into different sorts of clothes.

  He felt somehow that they were fixed like the flowers in the ceiling, the birds on the windows and the dead copies of the living in the museum. He was a stranger and longed to be sitting barefooted in the sun on the verandah at home. He felt isolated, alone, not frightened but alone. Everything was pleasant but he did not belong here. It was the first time he had felt there was a place where he belonged and a place where he didn’t.

  He tried to imagine Gran at such a gathering. What would she do? Stand in the middle of the room and read? There were lots of lights here. People would walk around her and ask who she was and what she was reading and she’d say, ‘Mmm. What was that?’ or say nothing at all. Gran wouldn’t be fussed. She could go anywhere.

  And Edward. If he walked in it would be like Gulliver in Lilliput. He would stride down the room and everyone would shrink and shrink until they were all just eyes looking up at him. Perhaps Edward would pick them up on his hand. If he laughed they might blow off. Or he might pick some flowers off the ceiling like Matthew sometimes picked off cake decorations. Edward could go anywhere or do anything just like Gran.

  But Mother? He looked at her nodding and smiling and laughing and patting her hair and her gown, drawing her gloves through her hands and picking at the fingertips. He looked at all the gentlemen who encircled her, nodding and smiling and laughing and taking her hand or arm. And Matthew realised: Mother is like this with all gentlemen. She was like this with Edward and with the man in the cigar-brown suit and with the gentlemen today. She makes them look all the same, even Edward. And he felt uneasy.

  And then Mother had come up to him with one of the gentlemen and said, ‘This is my little man—the real love of my life,’ and Matthew had felt embarrassed because he knew she did not mean what she said.

  ‘Gran,’ he said later, ‘there were so many gentlemen around Mother and they all looked the same. Do you suppose they have names?’

  ‘How about Gentleman 1, 2 and 3, Matthew? Would that do? Unless we also have to say Gentleman 5, 6 and 7 …’

  Matthew giggled. ‘There were lots of them and none as nice as Edward.’

  ‘That’s for sure. It would take a lot of that sort of gentleman to make an Edward.’

  Matthew envisaged a set of his dressed puppets standing on each other’s heads or lumped together hand to hand. ‘On top of each other or sideways, Gran?’

/>   ‘Both and then there still wouldn’t be enough. Of course, we’d have to boil down their hearts and brains and bake new ones for Edward. But I doubt if we’d have enough. What do you think?’

  Matthew shook his head. ‘Not enough, Gran. Even if you put them all together they wouldn’t make Edward. Edward is different. He’s made of other things.’

  ‘So he is,’ Gran said.

  ‘When we went in the door, Gran, the light from the coloured windows made squares and diamonds on the floor. It twisted about my legs and when I put my hand in it, it turned purple and gold and red and green. It was real and beautiful but I could not catch it. There were little pictures on the glass all stiff and dead and I think Mother’s gentlemen are like the little pictures and Edward is like the coloured light.’

  Gran smiled as she often did when he tried to explain something. She and Edward had the same sort of smile. It enfolded him, not like the smiles of the gentlemen that whisked over him like a feather duster, or the smile of the man in the brown suit that poised ready to pounce.

  ‘There were lots of gentlemen there but not the man who wears that very tight brown suit.’

  ‘Which man is that, Matthew?’

  ‘You know, Gran, we met him at The Stump and you said his collar was too tight.’

  ‘That man. Where do you see him, Matthew?’

  ‘He was at the March Past at Rundles. Mother talked to him but he was horrible to Mr Werther. He called him names and wouldn’t let him sit down and eat a piece of cake and then Edward came in and he disappeared. Do you think he’s afraid of Edward?’

  ‘I don’t know, darling. I don’t know. Does he ask you about Edward?’

  ‘Sometimes, and he says things about Mother. He’s not a kind man. Edward is kind. I love Edward and I wish he were my father.’

  Gran popped a hand over his mouth. ‘Ssh. Your Mother might hear, darling.’

  ‘Why? She wouldn’t mind. She likes Edward.’ He remembered her hand next to Edward’s on the watering can. He tasted the smile which bounded from Edward’s mouth to hers and he knew, suddenly he understood, who the ghosts had been.