There was a handwritten letter, probably to my mother, although the first page was missing so I couldn’t be sure. It was signed Kath. She referred to the Home, and the war, and there were mentions of Eunice and Daisy.
But it was the second letter that got my attention. It was addressed to my mother, typed on official Australian Army letterhead, and regretfully informed Mrs Lawrence that her husband had been officially declared Absent Without Leave.
Absent Without Leave.
There was another note, folded and refolded until it was a small, hard square. When I unfolded it, the paper was torn and grubby, like it had been handled a lot, and not always gently. The words were scrawled roughly and were hard to read in places; they crawled across the page as if eager to escape over the side. In part the letter read:
You must agree that things have not always gone smoothly between us, and so I am hoping that what I have to say will come as no surprise. I have met a local girl and we are very much in love. I do not plan on returning to Australia and in fact as I have deserted my post I most probably will never be able to do so in any case. I shall miss the boy, of course; please tell him his father thinks of him often. And I am sad to never know the baby, but as we have never laid eyes on each other, I don’t suppose she will miss me. She must be twelve months old by now? In any case, I’m sure you will be a good mother to both of them, and are no doubt better off without me. We have spent more time apart than together because of this bloody war and I am sorry that has prevented us from knowing each other properly as man and wife …
All of this was news to me, of course. There I was, seventy years old and I’d spent my whole life thinking that my father had died in active service in New Guinea. I’d been told he was missing, and even then I knew that when you go missing in those jungles for long enough, they presume you’re not coming back, except maybe in a box. Reading that letter – learning that he not only deserted but also took up with another woman – fair winded me. Shone a whole new light on events.
I remember quite clearly the day Mum got the telegram that she said – she said – told her he was missing. I can see her whole body slumping, her hands trembling so much that the piece of paper shook. Her eyes, when she finally looked at me, were unfocused, like she wasn’t seeing me at all, like she was staring right through me to the wall behind.
Or maybe I don’t remember any of that. Maybe I’ve re-created that image over the years since. Maybe there was no telegram. Perhaps I contrived her grief, or if not, perhaps the pain I saw on my mother’s face was not from loss but from betrayal.
I don’t know. I was only six years old. And anyway, the events of two weeks later took over the fact of my father being gone. I mean, he was already gone; he’d been gone for months. Hadn’t seen me or Mum since before Emily was born. It was a tragic time. Fathers conceiving children they didn’t know they had, or worse, knowing they had a baby coming and not being able to return. Or not ever seeing them at all. I suppose if you’ve never seen the kid then you don’t have any fatherly affection for her. But then, what would I know about fatherly affection.
I got to thinking about all the females in my life – Emily, Edith, Sarah, and of course the first woman in my life, my mother.
I tried to think back to what my mother was like, tried to remember fragments of her and my father, of how they were together. But I’d never had a clear picture of him in my mind – he was absent more often than not, even before he went missing. And with the passage of so much time it was practically impossible. And my mother … I remembered my mother as worn down by life, tired to the bones with caring for me and my sister. Grief-stricken and aching with loss.
I remember her as alone.
It was all such a long time ago. Does it really matter anymore?
36
Snake was back. The boy recognised his motorcycle in the front yard. He skirted it as if it might spontaneously rev into motion. He paused on the top stair and pressed his ear to the door. Hearing no sound, he stepped across the lounge. His mother’s bedroom door was shut. He slipped into his own room and closed the door.
From his pocket he pulled a nugget of fool’s gold. It gleamed dully in the dusty shadows of his room. He had noticed it on the deputy principal’s desk when he’d been hauled in for fighting with Tommy Brownlow. It was nothing personal against Mr Brady – he just wanted that nugget. He had fallen against the desk on his way out and swiped it before either Mr Brady or Tommy noticed. Now he opened his shoebox and found a place for it amongst his treasures.
The mumble of voices prompted him to replace the lid and slide the box back under his bed as his mother knocked and opened the door.
You’re home! Good timing. We’re going to have pizza. Want some?
The alarm bells in his head competed with the growls from his stomach. Um … OK, sure. I’m starving.
He trailed after her into the kitchen. Snake threw the phone onto the table with a clatter and stared at the boy.
Pepperoni with extra chilli all right for you, kid? He smirked.
The boy’s mouth was dry. He swallowed. Yeah. Fine.
So …
Snake kicked out the chair nearest to him.
Haven’t seen you for a while. Sit down. Fill me in on what you’ve been up to.
The boy silently beseeched his mum to intervene, but she was oblivious.
I’ll leave you two to chat then. I’m going to have a shower. Call me when the pizza gets here.
She left the room. The boy was alone, the snake rearing up, ready to strike.
The man drummed his fingers on the tabletop, his eyes never leaving the boy. The corners of his mouth twitched as if he was trying not to smile.
So … he repeated again, eaten any good chicken lately?
He guffawed at his joke. The boy looked away.
Snake grabbed the boy’s wrist and held it fast. He winced. He concentrated on the man’s hand as tears stung behind his eyelids and threatened to spill over his lashes. He concentrated hard. The hand gripping his wrist was a boxing glove in comparison to his own. Thick, stubby fingers, the nails bitten to the quick, the lines and whorls ingrained with grime. The boy waited until the moment he felt the man’s grip loosen, and then he twisted free and ran out the door without looking back.
…
He pedalled fast, his legs a blur of motion. He couldn’t say – not even in his own head – what he was running from or why it was so necessary he get away. Snake made him uncomfortable, but then so had many of his mother’s other boyfriends. One or two had been all right; they’d talked to him like a mate and not some worthless kid, some nuisance who was in the way. But mostly they were rough or cruel, or at the very least smelly and unkind and stupid. Good or bad, they never lasted long. The one thing the boy could be sure of was that whoever he was, he would only be a temporary annoyance. Except for Snake. He’d been hanging around, on and off, for months now. The boy rode faster, as if his furious legs could push away unwelcome thoughts.
He followed the concrete path through the park and skidded to a halt next to a tangle of native bushes. He dragged his bike into the undergrowth and left it half-hidden under a scratchy shrub. He pushed his way through the curtain of foliage that concealed the slow-flowing creek beyond. The overhanging leaves blocked the afternoon sun, dappling its rays into constantly changing patterns. Shadows danced on the surface of the water and on the narrow banks. The air was cooler here, the summer heat fractured through the leaves and branches, relieving its sting. The boy cleared aside a patch of leaf litter and squirmed his bottom into the dank soil like a puppy settling in a basket. He leant against the trunk of a solid gum and rubbed his back against the tree, each scratch creating another itch. He lifted great handfuls of dirt and mulch and watched as the layers of the earth slipped through his fingers – first the muddy clods stuck together with creek water; then the loose soil from which emerged a
beetle, two worms and a cockroach; then the dry summer dust on top; and finally the fallen leaves, the detritus and waste of the growth around him. The pungent odour swelled into the air with each sweep of his arm. Ants scurried away in frantic indecision; unseen life rustled outside his arm span. He leant back again and closed his eyes, suddenly heavy with fatigue. Sunbeams played across his face. The drowsy droning of a bee harmonised with the burbling of the creek. He slumped sideways, cradled his head on his arms, and slept.
He dreamt he was flying above the park, his arms outstretched, breeze lifting his hair and billowing his T-shirt into a sail. He could see the oval below, the long grass waving like the roil of the ocean. He could see the glittering line of water meandering across the lower east side of the park, tracked on both sides by a boundary of brush. On the other side of the creek he could just see the road, glimpses of black asphalt glinting in the sunlight. He swooped lower and lower, feeling the power in his limbs. The undulating grass grew to meet him, until his belly swept across its feathery tips, tickling his skin. He reared upwards and gazed down again. To his surprise, Snake was in the centre of the field, his arms with his large, hairy hands waving at him. He flew a little lower. Snake was gesturing at something on the ground, something hidden in the grass. He fell further, knowing that to cease his forward motion would be to drop from the sky. There was a dark shape amongst the lurid green, and then he swooped, and the old man’s face was peering up, frightened and vulnerable. The boy plunged lower, and quick as a flash Snake tripled in height and grabbed the boy’s wrist, pulling him to the ground. He landed with a grunt. The old man had vanished. Snake was sucking on a wishbone and held it out, an offering. The boy reached out and hooked his pinky around one side of the bone and pulled with all his strength. He fell backwards, and saw in his hand one half of a black chick, its body rent in two, its tiny heart still beating, pumping out spurts of red from the severed arteries that protruded obscenely into the air.
The boy woke with a jolt and glanced around wildly. The sun had set; the evening glow was soft. Black clouds of bugs hovered. He smacked his arms and thighs, squashing two or three insects with each slap. Small smears of blood dotted his skin. He unfolded his cramped body and inspected it for bites and welts and scratches. He looked directly upwards, into the darkening sky, where pinpricks of light pierced; a handful of diamonds scattered against black velvet. As he pulled out his bike, he saw the rising moon low against the horizon. He headed towards the moon, and home.
37
I asked the boy today what he was doing for Christmas. Nothing, he said. Just like that.
Even at the Home we had Christmas. I said to him, Surely your mum’ll do something nice for you, hey? Seems it’s a counter lunch at the pub every year. With the mother’s latest fella. From what I’ve seen of the blokes that hang around over there, I doubt there would be too much Christmas cheer for the boy.
I’ve had a few sad and sorry Christmases. Not much chop for a kid. At least at the Home there were lots of us, all in the same boat. We were too busy having a good time with the novelty of it all to be feeling sorry for ourselves. We always had roast pork or lamb, sometimes beef, with gravy and vegies too. Brussels sprouts, carrots, chokos, peas or beans. And roast potatoes, crunchy from the lard. One of the local churches, it might have been the Micks but I’m not sure, always sent over a box wrapped in brown paper and string, labelled Christmas Gifts for the Lost Lambs of Christ. We all thought that was terribly funny. Baa! We’d all cry. Baa! Baa! Then Mr McCready would clip whoever was closest over the ear and tell us we were an ungrateful lot and he had a good mind to return the box unopened, or forward it on to the poor. Then we’d fall quiet and act all remorseful and eventually he’d relent and ask one of the boys to get the scissors. He’d cut the string and open the box and hand out one wrapped gift to every boy.
There was never any left over, and no boy ever went without, so they got the numbers perfect every time. There were a couple of years, though, when the Micks or whoever must’ve been too poor and underprivileged themselves to give to the poor and underprivileged, ’cause the big brown box never arrived, and at the last minute Mr McCready went out to town himself and came back with shopping bags full of whatever must’ve been on special that week down at the local variety store. One year, I remember, it was a box of chocolates for every boy. That was a pretty good year. Another year we each got a toothbrush and a ball of twine. We got awfully creative with that string – boys made slingshots, string dolls, kite tails, and of course tied each other up quite regularly.
And the Christmas carols. One of the teacher’s wives, Mrs Kabranski, used to accompany us. The ivory piano keys were aged yellow and smooth, and poor Mrs K was tone deaf herself. We had a competition going each year to see who could make up the most disgusting lyrics to each hymn and then manage to sing the new words undetected by Mr McCready. The little kids got the giggles and were usually caught out, but some of the older kids could get along to verse four or five without so much as a snigger.
Like they say, you can’t buy memories like that.
38
The sun beat down remorselessly on the hall’s tin roof, and light shot through the windows and played on the tinsel. Half-a-dozen overhead fans turned, so high up they cooled no-one but the geckoes that clung onto the cornices waiting for moths.
The boy’s class was performing two songs. ‘Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer’ was a popular rendition that always made everyone in the audience laugh. It was the boy’s job to hit the cymbals at precisely the moment the sleigh hit the eggnog-soaked Grandma, leaving her lying in the snow with hoof prints on her back. In each chorus, immediately after his cymbal clash, Carli Rhodes – a pretty girl with laughing eyes and ears that were slightly too big – let out a scream of such pitch and intensity that those in the front row couldn’t believe it came out of her delicate mouth. A beat before the duet of clash and scream, Carli’s enthusiastic singing would cease for a moment as she gathered her breath for the shriek to come. She would tilt her head towards the boy, watching his arms, making sure her timing would be right. Each time the boy felt her eyes on him, he felt warm and self-conscious; perhaps he blushed. But by the time he had crashed the cymbals and heard her scream, and turned his head towards her, she had already looked away.
Two more classes performed after theirs. By eleven-thirty, the preppies were restless and fidgeting, the older kids whispering together or chattering loudly or punching each other or grabbing someone’s elf hat or Santa beard. The principal made his closing remarks and the audience sighed with relief as they heaved themselves out of the uncomfortable chairs, collected their belongings and headed towards the doors. On the way up the aisle, or paused by the door, each mum and dad scanned the room and made eye contact with their child. For some, that was enough – a simple wave and they were out into the sunshine and back to work. Others wended their way through the crowd, finding their children and bestowing hugs or kisses to the tops of heads. The boy heard parents praising their children or murmuring words of encouragement. He saw Carli Rhodes’ father pull her ponytail and tickle her nose with tinsel; she laughed and threw her arms around his stout belly.
The boy packed his cymbals into their case and hoisted it over his shoulder. He slipped out the side door, avoiding the crowd of happy families, and went to the music room to put the cymbals away.
…
In the late afternoon, the heat still radiated up from the asphalt and shimmered in a haze around anything metal, blurring the outlines of fences and roofs. The chickens were sprawled in the dust, double their size with their feathers fluffed out and their wings in the air as they attempted to cool down. The plants in the vegie garden lay limp and dejected with the heat. It was too early to water them – the drops would disappear before they hit the ground.
The old man looked hot too. He was reclined on the lounge clad only in a singlet and baggy shorts, his protruding legs like thin straws
, his varicose veins almost pulsing. His eyes were glassy, weary. The boy flopped into an armchair and flung his legs up, one over each armrest, trying to make as little contact as possible with the greasy fabric.
It’s hot, he said.
It is, the old man agreed.
SO hot.
Yes, SO hot.
Hotter than the desert.
Hotter than the sun.
Hotter than summer on the sun.
Hotter than an egg frying in a pan.
Hotter than Pink, the boy said.
Hotter than red, the old man retorted.
The boy giggled. Want some water?
Yep. There’s ice in the freezer.
When the boy was in the kitchen, the old man called out, Fancy a game of chess?
Nope. Too hot for chess.
Never too hot for chess.
The boy returned, two glasses dripping with condensation. Maybe later. I can’t think. It’s too hot to think.
How did you think at school, then?
Didn’t.
The old man looked stern but his eyes gave him away. Won’t learn much if you don’t do any thinking, you know.
I know.
And if you don’t do any thinking, and you don’t do any learning, you won’t turn out to be much chop.
Yeah, yeah, I know.
And you’ll never beat me at chess.
I can beat you anytime, the boy declared. Only I don’t want to show you up.
Oh is that so, huh. That’s why you’ve never beaten me, ’cause you don’t want to show me up?
Yeah, too right. Don’t want to hurt your feelings either.
The old man hid his laughter behind a cough. Oh, I see. So … why is it you keep playing with me, then? No challenge in it for you, surely, if you know you can beat me anytime you want.
The Promise Seed Page 17