by Wendy Scarfe
‘And what use will that be to them?’
‘I thought … It’s exciting to be able to make things.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Won’t it be useful then?’
‘It might. You can’t tell with people, though. Things that start useful don’t stay that way. Now animals, they don’t make anything except homes and they stay out of trouble.’
‘Not always. I’ve seen a lizard lose its tail and the cat catch a bird and a fox killed one of our hens.’
‘Clever today, aren’t you?’ Peter said, stroking shape into another leaf.
‘Why do you draw plants?’
‘So people won’t forget them.’
‘Why would they do that? They’re always growing somewhere.’
‘Not always. Once there were plants that aren’t here now. Probably someone put a house or a shop on them—a house or shop with your unbreakable glass windows.’
‘But they haven’t been invented yet.’
‘They will be. And there’ll be fewer plants. The Aborigines who lived here once didn’t have houses or shops. They made shelters from the trees and bushes. They knew something.’
‘Haven’t all people lived like us?’
‘No. Don’t they teach you anything at school?’
‘We learn about English people but I think they live the same way we do. I think even Sir Francis Drake lived in a house with windows.’
‘Drake! That murderous scoundrel.’
‘Was he?’
‘Was he? He was a pirate.’
‘Like Long John Silver?’
‘Pretty much the same, but he was a pirate for the rich people. And rich people are a whole heap of trouble. They want more than they should have.’
‘Edward talks about rich people and little people who have to creep about on the ground.’
‘Like my creatures, likely to get trodden on.’
‘Yes, I think so.’
‘And he wants to change that?’
‘I think so.’
‘Poor young fool.’
And Peter returned to his sketching, shaking his head.
‘Mr Werther,’ Matthew said as they walked along the street beside the house with the high wall, ‘Mr Werther, Edward has gone away to Mildura.’
‘It will be hot there, yes?’
‘Yes, I think so. Old Peter says it is always hot there.’
‘And what is he doing in Mildura?’
‘Changing things.’
Mr Werther smiled. ‘He enjoys that, eh?’
‘Yes,’ Matthew said, remembering how Edward had caught the boys who tormented Mr Werther. One day after school Matthew had seen Edward lounging against the wall, one shoulder propped against the rough stone, hands hunched into his pockets. When the boys called “Fat Fritz” and threw stones over the wall, Edward grabbed them by the back of their shirt collars, one in each hand, and lifted them off the ground so that their feet dangled on the ends of their legs. Then he ran them into the street while their arms flopped helplessly and their faces grew red and frightened.
‘Cowards, bullies, nasty, nasty little bastards!’ he said, and he shook them back and forth before dropping them on the ground. They fell loose jointed and limp like those bed-ridden and wobbling from weakness.
‘Grr,’ he said as they scrambled up. ‘Grr. Get home.’ And they ran. Edward had dusted his hands and grinned. ‘All fixed,’ he said. ‘No more trouble from them.’
Mr Werther had held out his hand. ‘You are kind, my friend, very kind. That is two times you have rescued me.’
‘Edward is wonderful.’ Matthew looked up at Edward and held his hand tightly.
‘A loyal friend, like you, my little Schubertianer. But Mr Kingsley …’
‘Yes, Mr Werther? And the name’s Edward.’
‘Edward then. Impetuous is,’ he hesitated, ‘impetuous is dangerous. They will not love you, those scallywags.’
‘I don’t want them to love me, just behave decently.’
‘Teaching people to be decent is a problem, yes? How to do it?’
‘I’ll leave you to teach them, Mr Werther. Teaching is a bit slow for me.
‘But you teach Matthew well and he’s lucky.’ And he had ruffled Matthew’s hair and strode off.
Now Mr Werther wanted to know Edward’s news. ‘And what is Edward changing in Mildura, eh?’
‘I don’t know, but Gran is worried.’
‘Your Gran is worried?’
‘Yes. I think she is afraid, Mr Werther.’
‘Afraid? Your brave Gran afraid?’
‘I think it’s about a man, the same man who was unkind to you at Rundles.’
‘What does he have to do with your Gran?’
‘He comes to see Mother.’
‘Ah, yes. I see. Of course.’
‘I wish Edward could pick him up by his tight collar and run him down the path and throw him out the gate like he did to the boys who worried you.’
‘Is that so, my little Schubertianer? What a violent fellow you are becoming.’
‘Why is Gran afraid of him, Mr Werther?’
‘I don’t know but perhaps we can ask her, eh? You would like to take tea with me at Rundles on Saturday afternoon—you and your Gran, eh?’
‘Oh, yes please.’
‘Then I’ll write a little note. A lady should be asked nicely, yes?’
Gran was delighted. ‘How very thoughtful, how kind. But don’t tell your mother, Matthew. There’ll be another storm.’ Matthew screwed up his face and winked. Gran laughed at him.
Rundles dressed up every Saturday afternoon. Gold curtains with red tassels looped back over the high arched doorway. Green and gold carpet like spring grass rich in dandelions soft and springy under Matthew’s feet. The round tables had linen cloths so stiff that if they stood on the ground, Matthew pictured them remaining upright like tents you could crawl inside. The silver sugar bowls, teapots, milk and cream jugs looked like articles repeated and endlessly resplendent in a mirror. Against the walls heavy red sideboards were heaped with roses banked and tiered and on each table stood a single crimson rose in a slender green porcelain vase.
Ladies wore Saturday dresses with frills and bows and cameos and brooches and hats with flowers and ribbons and bunches of lace or net. Their faces were pretty with the powder and lip colour Mother used, from little scented pots all over her dressing table. The last time she bought face powder it was from a hawker knocking at the door, the sleeve of his old army coat looped up his arm. He unpacked and displayed his box of wares with one hand. Matthew watched as his mother selected jars and bottles, opened them, sniffed them, held their colours to the light, even dabbed a little on her finger to rub on the back of her hand.
Gran came out to see. ‘Has he only got one arm?’ Matthew had whispered.
‘Yes, poor man. He’s a returned soldier.’
‘How did he lose his arm?’ He thought of the lizard, a half-body scuttling away without its tail, legs now oddly misplaced.
The soldier grinned at him. ‘A German got me one night. Pow! One shot and there I was.’
‘Did it hurt?’
‘Like hell.’
‘What does it look like?’
‘Matthew! Don’t be rude!’ His mother was shocked.
‘He’s curious,’ said the man. ‘It’s fair enough. Wish more were like him. Wouldn’t mind if some others wondered what it was like to lose an arm. It’s no fun I can tell you.’
‘So brave,’ Margaret murmured. ‘So sad. You poor young man.’
He looked uncomfortable, a little resentful, then, noting her beauty, tolerant.
‘It’s hard to understand,’ he said.
‘You must hate the Germans.’
‘Not really. They’ve lost a lot of arms, too. The brotherhood of the armless supersedes, you might say, the brotherhood of just about everything else.’
‘Oh,’ his mother said, confused. ‘Oh.’
Gran smiled. ‘Let’s buy
a couple of jars, Margaret—the Milady Powder, perhaps, and the rose water and glycerine.’
‘But you said … this month’s money …’
‘Did I? Can’t I change my mind?’
‘Oh, goodie.’ And Margaret pounced on the two jars she had reluctantly returned to the hawker. Matthew wondered if the ladies at Rundles bought their powder and rose water from one-armed soldiers. He hoped they did.
Mr Werther had booked a table. He stood up when they came and held a chair for Gran. They sat down, facing each other, linked by the small round table. Matthew felt both private and part of the Saturday afternoon crowd that talked and laughed and got up and sat down and walked in and out. Like others there he belonged to the general laughter and talk, but he also belonged to the special laughter and talk of Gran and Mr Werther. It was different when he came out with Mother. Then he felt alone, beside her but separate. She never closed off a world for herself and him. Although she sat with him he knew that in reality she skipped out of her chair nodding, laughing, flirting and frolicking around the room. People always looked at her. She insisted that they did.
Mr Werther ordered for them. Matthew decided to drink tea as they did.
‘No lemonade spider?’
‘You don’t usually like tea, Matthew.’
‘Yes, I do,’ he asserted. ‘I do like tea.’
‘Then tea it is.’ Later, when it arrived, he sipped it determinedly.
‘When the weather is fine,’ Mr Werther said, ‘I take tea at four under my grapevine. It is old now, a little thick in the waist and it rests its arms on the trellis. But its grapes, such a purple in summer, and under it the light is green and cool. Such a coolness you do not feel, not even in water.’
‘You make a little wine, Mr Werther?’ asked Gran.
‘A little. Just enough for a glass with my dinner. It is a great winemaking area, you know. Before this war I was invited—sometimes—to spend an afternoon in the cool cellars with other gentlemen, Enjoyable, yes? Occasionally. But now …’ He stopped.
Gran looked uncomfortable. He smiled.
‘You should not feel embarrassed for me. I do not miss much. Only one glass I wanted and it is hard you know to make one glass last a whole afternoon. I would hold it and sip it and hold it and sip again and tip the glass so—’ he imitated with his cup of tea, ‘—and not swallow it. It is tedious to just drink for hours. Wine is like experience: a little should be savoured at one time and then reflected upon much.
‘You have visited the vineyards, Mrs Keogh?’
Gran nodded. ‘Unhappily my son-in-law was one who drank in cellars on hot afternoons.’
‘Forgive me. I did not mean to make you remember sad things. Ah—the music, always so cheerful at Rundles,’ and he beamed at Gran and Matthew while a gentleman in black coat and white collar played lightly and brightly on the piano.
‘It frolics, yes?’
‘Wants our attention but has really nothing much to offer,’ Gran laughed.
Mr Werther looked happy. ‘What I think, yes. It is not good music but Rundles on Saturday is not the place for good music.’ And he cut another piece of cake for Gran.
Afterwards Matthew reproached him: ‘Mr Werther, you didn’t ask her why she was afraid.’
‘Didn’t I, my little Schubertianer?’
‘No.’
‘Ah, well. I think it is because a gentleman should not intrude too quickly on a lady. Next time we will talk about it, yes?’
Mr Werther picked them up in his car. It was small, black and blunt-nosed with cabin room for two and a dickey seat. Gran joined Mr Werther in the cabin and Matthew climbed into the dickey seat. He felt like a king driving in a carriage looking out at all the people who had to walk or ride bicycles, but he felt isolated because he passed others so quickly. A glimpse of a face in a moment became the back of a head. He felt superior because he had a servant, a car, to take effort out of movement. He had never noticed before that to walk or run needed exertion. Now the pleasantness of just looking superseded the familiar pleasure of feeling his legs jump to obey him.
It was a mild day, warmly windy, and the breeze sucked around the bonnet of the car and licked his hair off his brow and ears. His eyes smarted and watered a little and occasionally particles of dust flicked his face like small sharp fingernails.
But the little discomforts did not spoil his excitement. Today the sea did not lie in ribbons of lucid green between pale shouldered sandbars. Waves which sometimes ran thinly across wet sand now left daubs of white suds and the water had a yeasty restless look. Matthew preferred the sea when it was still and he could see clearly all the life that lived in it—like the world he knew in daylight. Today it concealed, like his feet when he paddled, as if they had been taken from him and he began at the knees. He wondered what might happen to his feet when they were out of sight, what might be going on in the water churned around with yellow sand, as opaque to his vision as the shadows of night.
Was Grandfather there, his spirit spreading out in the warm shallows on still days or tossed turbulently when the wind blew? He knew about Matthew, Gran had said. Might his grandfather catch hold of him one day, on a day like this when he could rush upon him, concealed beneath those yeasty waves?
Mr Werther and Gran sat sedately on the beach. Matthew remembered how different Edward had been. He had thrown off his coat, unbuttoned his shirt collar, rolled up his sleeves and flung his coat across his shoulder. Then he had kicked off his shoes and socks, rolled up his trousers and bounded along the edge of the sea, his feet leaving such deep holes in the sand that their sides took forever to roll into the middle and fill again.
Mr Werther looked at Gran. ‘You do not mind, eh?’ he asked, as he sat on the beach, carefully removing his shoes and tucking his socks inside. His toes were pink and stubby, like the little pink snouts of the flowers on the dolichos vine over the outhouse. Matthew wanted to giggle because when Mr Werther walked his little toes seemed to snuffle through the sand. In the water they became red, like little blushing faces. Matthew jumped up and down beside him and Mr Werther smiled.
‘Do not wet me all over, little Schubertianer. Be kind to an old man, yes?’
When Gran told Mother that Mr Werther was picking them up in his car Mother had looked amazed.
‘A German. A car? How unjust!’
‘What is unjust about it?’
‘Well, we’re fighting the Germans, aren’t we?’
‘And what has that got to do with Mr Werther?’
‘If you can’t see …’
‘No, I can’t. Not really,’ said Gran, as Margaret walked haughtily out of the room.
Later she said to Gran: ‘If that German is calling here you might at least be pleasant to Regie.’
‘Regie! Is that his name?’
‘Reginald.’
‘Margaret, there are reasons not to have Regie—Reginald—that man—here.’
‘None I can see.’ Gran had given in but she threw a small rug over the boxes in the parlour.
Now Gran said to Mr Werther: ‘How could anyone called Regie be anything but a comic opera villain? All the arguments were laughed out of me but afterwards I wondered if the name as well as the face might be a mask.’
‘Perhaps he is just interested in your daughter. It is possible, yes?’
‘I suppose so.’ Gran shrugged.
‘And you?’ asked Mr Werther. ‘Ireland is a distressed country.’
‘Very.’
‘There are informers, gunmen.’
‘We always lived in the shadow of the informer, of the gunman.’
‘Our fears live on even when situations don’t deserve them. That is so, yes?’
‘I suppose,’ said Gran. ‘But my bones won’t let me believe that he is what he seems. They ache every time he walks into the house.’
‘What harm can he do? Edward conceals nothing.’
‘Only those boxes.’
‘You have covered them?’
; ‘Yes, with a heavy rug.’
‘But still you worry. Maybe you should find another hiding place until Edward moves them.’
‘Yes, but I’d rather remove that … Regie.’
‘Then who will notice? And when Edward returns he can remove the boxes, yes, and you will worry no more.’
‘I would still rather remove … Regie.’ And she laughed in spite of her worries.
‘Now if he had my name, Wolfgang,’ Mr Werther beamed, ‘it would be appropriate, eh? Life is full of amusing contradictions, yes?’
‘When I was a child,’ Gran said, ‘we played a game of guessing people’s names. We’d stroll along the street pretending not to stare, then when we had passed someone we’d all shout our choices and shriek with laughter. Sometimes our victims looked back at us, puzzled, and we’d laugh again because we had a secret and they didn’t understand what was happening.’
‘We should play,’ Mr Werther said.
‘Good gracious, no. That was for children.’
‘I could play.’ Matthew walking between them caught their hands hopefully.
‘We will be quieter than children, yes?’ suggested Mr Werther. ‘Not shriek, just smile a little.’
Gran laughed. ‘Very well but first we must walk sedately so that no one suspects. And one of us must say, without appearing to look, “The lady in blue with the white hat.” We count to ten, pass her and then …’
‘Isolde,’ said Mr Werther.
‘Deirdre,’ said Gran.
Matthew looked back. The lady in blue was leaning on the rail talking to a young gentleman who held her white frilled parasol.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘She should have a pale-blue name. I think it should float. Like a sky. Shouldn’t it?’ And he looked anxiously at them.
‘Yes, darling,’ Gran said. ‘It should float.’
‘But certainly, my Schubertianer. Isolde is much too heavy and Deirdre too sorrowful. Now a light-blue name. I wonder …’
At the end of the jetty a band played and a large gentleman with a fierce whiskery moustache sang ‘I am the Lord High Executioner’ in a deep sinking voice.
‘Mr Werther, what is an executioner?’
‘Not a nice person I’m afraid, Matthew. Someone who cuts off another’s head.’