From the Wreck

by Jane Rawson

  ‘Maybe? It doesn’t hurt much right now. I could come.’

  ‘No, wait here,’ he said. ‘I need you to create a diversion if Father comes back.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘He’ll want to know where I am. Make up a story. Or confuse him. Ask him a lot of questions about bookkeeping or the best way to lay a fire.’

  Georgie laughed. ‘I can do that. Don’t go for too long!’

  But Mrs Gallwey wasn’t there. Gone up to the Hills, Mrs Frome told him. Away a few days, visiting her sister. Could she help? But she couldn’t.

  He would hide at the creek for a while. Camp. Wait. Think. Hide.

  Georgie stuck his head over the wall. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I might go to the creek.’ Georgie loved the creek. Henry scrambled around in his brain, his brains, for more. ‘But maybe I won’t. I heard there’s a tramp down there. Dangerous. Eats children.’

  ‘Does he have a treasure? I heard he has a treasure.’

  ‘What do you mean you heard? You never heard anything about it.’

  ‘I did too. I was at the butcher with Mother and she was talking to Missus Callan and it was so boring and I was over in the corner trying to see the lizard that sometimes crawls out from behind the meat safe and I heard Daniel Hoffman taking to Ian Callan and he was saying there was a tramp at the creek and he had a treasure.’

  Really? Maybe there was a tramp.

  ‘All right, come with me.’ It would be less lonely if Georgie came too.

  They took back streets and alleyways, a small hill stiff with scrub, over and down until they stood on the edge of the creek. The creek was really a drain, brick-lined and full of rubbish that washed down whenever there was a flood. They found a dim, quiet place in the trees alongside, somewhere the mud wasn’t too sticky, and ate the rest of the pie.

  ‘So where does the tramp live?’ Georgie asked, and Henry reached over to wipe the crumbs off his chin. ‘Are we going to go find him?’

  ‘He lives …’ Henry went closer to the water, squinted his eyes and looked off along the drain.

  ‘What? I can’t hear you, you’re facing away from me. You should turn around when you talk to someone.’

  ‘What do you mean, what?’ Henry turned around. ‘Oh for God’s sake – come down here where you can see.’ Georgie slid down the slope and looked where Henry was pointing. ‘He lives over there. Oh, you can’t see from here. Follow me.’ He strode off, then turned back to check where Georgie was. ‘Follow me – but you have to be quiet!’

  ‘I’m good at being quiet,’ Georgie said quietly. ‘You know that, Henry.’

  Henry had to admit it was true. Even now that he was big, Georgie would hide in the tiniest places, could play alone for hours, could draw pictures in a corner of the laundry until dark and didn’t need Henry or anyone else.

  But Henry didn’t say that.

  He crept closer to the bank of the drain. Georgie would be behind him, he knew. No need to look back: Georgie followed instructions well.

  ‘Over there.’ Henry pointed to the low bridge.

  ‘It’s the bridge.’

  ‘I know it’s the bridge. That’s where he lives.’

  ‘On the bridge? Henry, we walk across that bridge all the time. We would have seen him.’

  ‘Under the bridge. He lives under the bridge. Look, where it’s dark. See the bush that hangs down in the water? Behind there.’

  Henry tried to remember what he’d heard at school when he was young and stupid like Ian Callan. He’d heard a killer lived there. He killed blackfellas and swaggies, everyone said. He killed them and drained out their blood to make a potion, then hid their bodies in the weeds on the edges of town. Mr Sidney had shown him one once.

  ‘Remember, this is a secret.’

  ‘I remember, Henry.’

  He didn’t know what he’d do if they did find the tramp. He probably wasn’t even here. And if he was here?

  He probably wasn’t even here. Henry reminded himself he was here to run away from home, not to look for any tramp, but then he remembered what Georgie had heard about the treasure. Even though it was probably all lies, he couldn’t help hoping. With a treasure, he could take a ship to California.

  ‘And don’t forget, he has a treasure. We have to get his treasure,’ Henry said.

  ‘I know he has a treasure. Isn’t that why we’re here? For the treasure?’

  ‘Yes. We’re here for the treasure. So maybe it’s even better if the tramp has gone. Then we can look for the treasure without defeating the tramp first.’

  ‘How will we defeat him if he’s there?’

  ‘I don’t think he’ll be there.’

  ‘What if he is there? Won’t he be stronger than us?’ Georgie was still speaking very quietly.

  ‘I’m strong, and you can trick him. We’ll trick him into giving us the treasure.’

  ‘I know some tricks.’

  They took each step slowly, Henry lifting his feet higher than usual to show Georgie how important it was to be quiet, to be careful. As they got closer to the bridge, Henry crouched behind sparse shrubs, peering between them, making sure they hadn’t been spotted yet. Nothing much moved down there; just the water. The slimy stones of the bridge dripped.

  ‘Is that him?’ Georgie’s voice was even quieter now.

  ‘What? Is what him?’ Henry tried to be just as quiet, but failed. ‘Where?’

  ‘Where the bushes moved. See?’ Georgie edged his way forward, quicker than Henry liked. Henry crawled behind him, but Georgie was faster.

  Georgie looked back towards him, then pointed again at the bushes, raising his eyebrows.

  Henry didn’t know if he could see. There were shadows in the water and they moved, a lot, and maybe they were the tramp’s boots, swinging, or his hands clutching at cold white fish as they tumbled by in the water.

  ‘I can see his hands.’ Henry was firm. Georgie wasn’t listening, though; he’d crawled to the bushes near the base of the bridge, on the far side from where the tramp was maybe fishing.

  ‘Georgie, you have to wait for me.’ He spoke a little louder. ‘Georgie, I’m in charge. This is my treasure, remember?’

  Georgie stopped crawling and sat back in the mud, waiting for Henry to catch up.

  ‘You see him?’

  ‘Of course I can see him. He’s fishing with his hands.’

  Georgie peered into the shadows. ‘He is, isn’t he! What do we do now, Henry? What’s our trick?’

  This tramp killed blackfellas. He had a potion. He caught fish in his hands.

  ‘We know where he is now. We’ll go home and arm ourselves, and come back tomorrow to overpower him.’

  ‘He might be gone tomorrow. He might leave and take his treasure with him.’

  He might take his treasure. Henry stopped to think.

  ‘You should stay and guard him and I’ll go home and get weapons,’ said Georgie.

  ‘Good idea.’ It was a great idea. Henry felt an overpowering love for his brother. Was he really going to go to California and leave Georgie behind? Once he was gone, what would Father do to Georgie? He grabbed Georgie’s arm, gripped it tightly for just a second. They needed to go to California together. ‘Do you know where my weapons are?’ He let go of Georgie’s arm.

  ‘Of course. You keep them with your less-favourite skeletons, under the bed.’

  Georgie was not supposed to know that. What else did he know? Never mind, it was useful that he knew. Henry would find out more later.

  ‘Good. Then bring …’ Henry thought about what would be best to defeat a treasure-hoarding, potion-brewing tramp. ‘Bring the mace, and bring my jousting stick.’

  ‘Which is the maze?’

  ‘The mace. It’s the stick with the apple on top, and the apple has nails stuck in it.’

  ‘And the …?’

  ‘The jousting stick is the stick. The big stick. It has string wrapped around at one end that makes a handle. To protect your hand
.’

  ‘What’s it for?’

  ‘You use it when you ride on a horse, to knock another person over when they’re on a horse.’

  ‘Do I need to bring a horse too?’

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’ Henry couldn’t explain why he thought a jousting stick would be best. But he thought if it was what King Arthur had used then it was somehow a little magical, and might be better at defeating tramp magic than an everyday weapon, like an ordinary beating stick. ‘Are you sure you don’t need me to come back with you? Can you carry them both?’

  ‘Of course I can.’

  It would take Georgie a long time to get home, and he would struggle to make his way back carrying the mace and the jousting stick. And he’d been vomiting a bit today; maybe he would vomit in the hall. Mother, or even Father, might catch him and stop him. Georgie would have to lie about why he needed the weapons and where he was going. But what lie could he tell that would trick them? They might make him reveal Henry’s quest. They would come and look for him, and take him home, and then Father would slice him open.

  ‘Hurry now, Georgie. Don’t get caught. And if you get caught, death before telling, remember?’

  ‘I remember. I promise, Henry. I’d rather die than tell a secret.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Don’t let him get away while I’m gone. I’ll think of some good tricks, don’t worry.’ Georgie wasn’t quite as quiet now. He was trying to whisper as he snuck away, but it was hard to whisper and sneak.

  ‘Quick! And quiet!’

  Georgie smiled over his shoulder and scuttled off among the weeds and out of sight.

  Henry sat quietly for a while. He watched some ants, then he followed them a little way into the scrub and found their nest. He poked it with a stick for a while, digging out some of the little white ant grubs. Mrs Gallwey had told him you could eat ant grubs, if you were in the bush and lost and hadn’t anything better. Blackfellas ate them, she said, but for choice. They ate them like they were grapes or figs: something sweet for when it wasn’t really a mealtime. He offered a grub to his Mark, but Mark was being quiet and still just now. Maybe Mrs Gallwey was eating ant grubs up in the Hills, exploring in the bush. Henry remembered that he was going to be a bush explorer, before he’d realised he had to go to California instead; that he was going to be a bush explorer left with just one camel, all his companions dead and Henry living on just ant grubs and juice he squeezed from the roots of spinifex. You could squeeze juice from spinifex, Henry knew that. He thought maybe spinifex was a plant, because Mrs Gallwey had talked about its roots. Probably just as Henry was about to starve and die he would meet an Afghan. Afghans walked through the desert with camels all loaded up with tools to build the telegraph line. That’s what Miss Simpson had told them all at school, that the Afghans had come from Africa with their camels and walked around in the desert and slept at night wrapped up just in a carpet and washed themselves by scrubbing all over with sand. It would be a good life. Perhaps Henry could join up with the Afghans and live on ants and juice from spinifex and sometimes have an apple like that one.

  There was an apple floating down the drain, heading for the bridge. Henry hadn’t seen the tramp now in ages. Maybe he wasn’t even there. Maybe he was out murdering, or had another place, like a blacksmith, where he made his potions. You couldn’t make potion under a bridge. You’d need fire to make a potion, surely. The tramp must have gone to his smithy to make a potion and that’s why Henry couldn’t see him anymore. Maybe he’d taken the fish he caught with his hands, and he was going to cook them on the fire he used to make his potions.

  It would be good to eat an apple while he waited.

  Henry peered at the bridge for three, four, five seconds. There was nothing there. He came out from the scrub and leaned out over the water to see if he could grab the apple. It wasn’t bobbing anymore now. It had caught on something. It actually wasn’t a very good apple, it was quite shrivelled. And it had two nails stuck in it.

  ‘Oh, Georgie!’ Henry said it out loud, and then he remembered the tramp and ducked back under cover. What if the tramp had heard and was coming for him now? He watched the bridge intently. He lay very, very still. Nothing moved. Nothing moved and nothing moved and nothing moved. He sat up again. The apple was still there. A hungry tramp would have fished the apple out by now, however shrivelled.

  Georgie must have dropped the mace in the drain. It had broken, and the apple had floated away.

  Georgie did not arrive. Of course he didn’t. Why would he come here now when he would worry Henry would yell at him for breaking the mace? He must have gone home, gone back to polish his shoes, knowing Henry would eventually get bored and come home too. Maybe he hoped Henry would never even know about the mace. Georgie might make up some story about how he had been stopped by Mother before he even had a chance to fetch the weapons. That’s what Henry would say, if he was in Georgie’s place.

  He pulled his schoolbag out from under the bush where he’d hidden it. How long could he camp here? Mrs Gallwey wasn’t due back from the Hills for days. All the food was gone already. He tried eating an ant grub, but it wasn’t very good so he spat it out. He carried his bag down to the water’s edge. There was no tramp, and no treasure. He knew that. He walked a little way along the drain in the direction of home, wondering if he could stay the night at Aunty Sarah’s. He looked down at the water and saw Georgie, lying in the drain with his eyes wide open and his skin all wrong.

  ‘Georgie?’

  Henry slid down into the drain. Georgie’s face was under the water and staring up at him.

  ‘Georgie?’

  Henry’s shoes were all wet and filling up with water and he tugged a bit at Georgie’s leg and Georgie just floated a little higher in the drain and stared up at him.

  Henry stood there with his feet all wet and waited until he would know what to do.

  4

  Aunty Sarah sat down beside him on the back steps of the Sailors’ Home.

  ‘Do you want to take a walk, Henry? Perhaps we could go to the park?’

  ‘Mother needs me here.’

  ‘Your mother is sleeping now. When she wakes up we can help her.’

  ‘I should help her now. We should do something for her. What can we do for her?’

  Sarah put her arm around his shoulders. ‘We could make something for everyone’s tea.’

  ‘There are so many people here. Who are all these people?’ Henry searched in his pocket for a handkerchief and wiped his face. ‘When will they all leave?’

  ‘Do you mean your Uncle Hills?’

  Henry nodded. Father’s brother had arrived at the house yesterday, two days after Georgie died, with his large, angry wife. Henry did not even know his father had a brother and now Uncle Hills was here in his house, with Aunty Hills, telling Henry what he may and may not do and where to be and at what time.

  ‘I don’t know how long he’ll be here. But he’s helping your father with the Home until your father feels a little better. We have to be patient and helpful and do as he says until then.’

  ‘I wish he would hurry up and feel better.’

  ‘Well, maybe we can help him with that. Come on, let me wipe your face a little more.’ Sarah reached for the handkerchief but Henry pulled away, shoving the rag into his pocket and going into the house.

  Sarah followed him to the kitchen, where Henry was pulling tins from the pantry shelf, looking for a tray he could use to bake scones. Mrs Abernathy Hills was not far behind. She pushed past Sarah in the corridor.

  ‘What are you doing, boy?’ She slapped his hand. ‘Leave those things alone. Doesn’t your mother have enough to manage without a naughty boy messing up her kitchen?’

  Henry glared at her, and deliberately dropped the jug he was holding. Milk and shards of pottery sprayed across the flagstone pantry floor, but Henry did not flinch.

  ‘You terrible, wicked child!’ His aunt smacked Henry’s face but he stared still at her.

  S
arah cried out. ‘Missus Hills! Please, we are just trying to make the tea for Henry’s mother! The boy is just trying to help!’

  ‘He’s a wicked child and he needs to be punished. His mother has been far too lenient with him, and now she is reaping the crop of his evil. Clean this mess up!’

  ‘Are you speaking to me, Missus Hills?’ Sarah’s voice was cold.

  ‘No, to the boy, of course. Missus Gardiner, I would thank you to watch your tone with me. I am a guest in this house, and the mother of seven boys. I know what boys need. I fear I am far too late for this one, though. He should be put in a home.’

  ‘Missus Hills!’ Henry saw Aunty Sarah’s eyes get watery, and her voice shook a little. ‘Henry is a good boy who loves his mother and father. You should not suggest he has been poorly raised. I have known him since he was born and he is a wonderful child.’

  ‘He is the devil. Look at the fate that has befallen his poor, dear brother. And all because of this wicked, wicked boy. Clean up this mess, boy!’

  Henry didn’t move, stood with his fists clenched and stared, still, at his mean old aunt who no longer met his eye.

  ‘Henry.’ Sarah could not reach him – Mrs Hills’s bulk was between them – but she had reached out a hand in his direction. ‘Henry, you should go outside. I will clean the kitchen, and then you and I can go for a walk. Please wait for me in the yard. Missus Hills, I would appreciate it if you would let me deal with this myself. I am sure it would not help either George or Eliza to hear us raising our voices at this time. Would you mind?’ She firmly pushed Mrs Hills’s shoulder.

  ‘I thank you not to touch me, Missus Gardiner.’ Mrs Hills had lowered her voice. ‘I will leave you alone with this boy, then, if that is what you wish. But you will certainly only make matters worse if you treat him in this soft, indulgent way. My sister-in-law has been too indulgent of him, and she has been taken full advantage of. You mark my words: nothing but evil will come of this child.’ She strode out of the room. They could hear her calling down the passageway, ‘Mister George Hills, may I remind you again of the necessity of keeping that boy of yours in line. If he is not to become a sheer devil, an alcoholic, a thief, a murderer, you simply must inflict the rod upon him.’