One Sunday

by Joy Dettman

  Silence then. Silence for a long time, only the rhythmic whisper of Kurt’s palms rubbing backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards on his trousers, from knee to thigh.

  ‘So, when are we talking about here, lad?’

  Kurt drew a breath, releasing it slowly towards the ceiling. Drew another. ‘On the evening of the New Year.’

  ‘Your brother didn’t come back and speak to her?’

  ‘No. He was hurt badly by that marriage. He…’ Again he shrugged. ‘Rachael came again on the Friday night, again in tears. That night she pleaded with Christian until again he became angry and walked away. Then, last night, she came and I was in bed. My parents were in bed. I told her I would get my mother. She was not crying last night. She didn’t want me to wake Mutti. She said she had to speak to Christian, that she was leaving Kennedy. She was stronger last night. She said that no woman could be forced to live with a man she loathed. These were her words, Mr Thompson, her words to me last night.’

  He looked at Tom, then away to the batch of dog-eared papers on the desk, at the gap between ceiling and wall, at the water jug. His mouth was too dry; even his tongue, sent out to moisten his lips, felt dry.

  ‘I found my brother at Dolan’s. He was with a group. We argued, so I left, and I left Rachael with him. I did the wrong thing.’

  The pen wasn’t writing. ‘So why didn’t you say all this to me this morning?’

  ‘You didn’t ask me – as I didn’t ask you if she was dead.’

  ‘I asked you where your brother was.’

  ‘He was asleep. I said he was sleeping.’

  ‘Maybe the question I should have asked is how long had he been sleeping? I’m asking it now, lad.’

  Kurt shook his head. ‘Kennedy and Nicholas Squire will say my brother is the guilty one. You know their attitude to us,’ he said, his eyes meeting Tom’s now, and holding them. ‘Christian would not leave her bleeding beside the road. He was sick with love of her.’

  ‘He didn’t love her enough to talk to her when she came running to him for help. He didn’t love her enough to get her away safe from that pub last night either. That’s what you said to me a minute ago.’

  ‘He was drunk.’ Kurt stood, stepped on glass, heard the crunch of it loud beneath his heel.

  ‘That’s no defence, lad. Never was, nor ever will be.’

  ‘My brother did not harm her. In here, I know this.’ His index finger prodded his chest. ‘He would never raise his hand against a woman. My brother would cut off his own nose to spite his face, he would harm himself in anger, he would fight me, our father, or any man alive, but he would not raise his hand against a woman – and he would kill any man who did. In here, I know this.’

  ‘She wasn’t just any woman to him, lad. She was his woman and she’d been with another man. A lot of violence can be done in such situations; it’s inclined to alter a man’s perception of right and wrong when that sort of thing happens to him,’ Tom said.

  Kurt pointed that same index finger at the paper. ‘Please write this for your city men to read, Mr Thompson. My brother, drunk or not, did not leave Rachael bleeding on that road. I know my brother’s failings too well, and I also know his strengths.’ He turned, walked to the end of the counter, lifting the section that locked him in, knowing now he should have kept his mouth shut.

  ‘Come back and sit down, lad. We’re not done yet. And I’m not saying that your brother is the guilty party either – and I know that what you’re saying about Squire and Kennedy is dead right. Dead right. If they’ve got reason to believe she’s been on with Chris, then they’ll go after him with all they’ve got, you can bet your back teeth on that. I’ll tell you something else while I’m about it. Squire has already been onto his city friends, who have got direct contacts at Russell Street. And those city chaps are coming up here today. And too right, they’ll listen to Squire and Kennedy, but those Russell Street chaps are good at their jobs, and damn good at sniffing out the facts, and they’re not in the business of hanging innocent men. All I’m writing down here are facts. So sit down and calm down, and let’s go back to where you thought she was someone sleeping it off beside the road.’

  The story was repeated while Tom’s pen scratched. A strange sound, like mice in the barn.

  ‘So you last saw Rachael at Dolan’s pub. At what time?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’d been asleep. It . . . it felt late.’

  ‘What time did you go to bed?’

  ‘We had worked all day on the dam. I was in bed by eight-thirty.’

  ‘And you said you saw her often at your place, prior to last night.’

  ‘Before her marriage, we saw her often. Since her marriage, she has been to our house three times, the Tuesday, the Friday, and last night. On the Friday night, my mother walked her home, and was cursed by Kennedy for her caring.’

  ‘Did Nicholas Squire know your brother was reckoning on marrying the girl?’

  ‘He knew they were close. He came to our house, a year ago – maybe a little more than a year ago – and he made it very clear that Christian was not acceptable. He told my mother to keep her German scum away from his daughter.

  ‘My brother and I are second generation Australians, on our mother’s side; she was born on the Merton gold fields.’ Anger had crept into his voice as the words came uncensored from his heart. ‘My father left German soil in 1874. His first wife, and his Australian-born son and two daughters, are buried here, in this town. He has given sweat and blood enough to this country to be treated with respect. If there is “scum” in this town, it is as the fat in the saucepan when my mother boils it up for purification. The scum rises to the top, Mr Thompson.’

  ‘A lot of folk lost sons in that war, and Squire one of them. Name-calling is the only weapon some folk have, lad.’

  ‘We have had the name-calling for a long time, and the bricks through our windows too, and the wire-cutters at our fences –’ Kurt closed his mouth, clamped his jaw. He had said too much. He concentrated on the photograph of King George, not pleased by his outburst. He drew a deeper breath then spoke on to the enlarged postage stamp.

  ‘After Squire came to our home, my mother spoke to Rachael and Christian. She told them they must separate. It did no good. They were sixteen, laughing children, playing children’s games, and involving us in their games.

  ‘They wrote notes, posted them in that hollow tree near the bridge. They met at night at the river, until her parents found out and began locking Rachael in her room each night. Even that didn’t stop them; it became a part of their game. Christian would go to Squire’s house and help her up and down from her window, until Johnson’s dogs chased him to the river one night. After that, he made Rachael a rope ladder she could loop around the leg of her bed – so she could climb in and out unassisted.

  ‘She could always climb like a monkey, Mr Thompson. You know Mr Croft’s mulberry trees? When I was a boy I went there one day with my billy and I found her hiding from her governess, so high up in that tree and far out over the water. Her dress was too fine for climbing, and it was stained –’ His fingers went to his lips, steadying them. Better not to speak of the mulberry tree. Better to close his mouth now, say no more, but a floodgate had opened up in him and he couldn’t close it.

  ‘Last summer, she’d come knocking at our window at all hours, laughing, her frock wet from her swim. Christian would go to her – and not return until dawn. Then all through last winter they met at the bridge. In September, they were planning to run away and live together, force her family to agree to their marriage. Christian packed his things and borrowed my money, but she didn’t meet him. Two weeks later we heard she had married Dave Kennedy. My brother –’ Kurt shook his head. ‘For him it was as if the world had ended. For weeks his eyes were a ghost’s eyes. This is when he began drinking.’

  ‘Not many in town understood that marriage. Not that I’ve got anything against Kennedy, not personally. I don’t know him well enough to have anyt
hing against him, though he comes across as a sullen sort of a coot –’ He closed his mouth. He’d have to watch himself or he’d be standing under the tree chewing the fat with the gossips.

  The interview continued, the pen scratching its spidery scrawl. No master of the pen, Tom Thompson, he kept his sentences short, wrote no more than necessary, knowing that Clarrie Morgan would consider this case solved as soon as he saw that Reichenberg name and got a look at that bloodstained shirt. He’d fought in that war.

  rules

  Her father had slapped her face. He only ever did that if people lost control, so Helen knew she must have screamed. That slap had forced the scream inward to become caught in her throat. It was choking her.

  Squires did not display emotion in public. That was one of his rules. He had ten million rules.

  Rule: A crippled Johnson infant may share their classroom, but they must keep themselves above her, help teach Ruby her place. A Squire daughter must not treat the Johnson children as their equals.

  Rule: A Squire daughter may mix only with a select few of the town girls.

  And what if the select few didn’t select you? What then? Rachael had made her own selections.

  Rule: Squire daughters must not aspire to higher education. They must play the piano, must sit embroidering tablecloths for their hope chest, even if one had no ear for music and hoped she’d never get married.

  Rule: Squires did not forget what the Germans had done to this family, did not acknowledge the existence of Molliston Germans. If a German walked into a store while they were in it, then a Squire walked out.

  Rule: Squires did not shop at Smith’s boot shop, even if he did make Ruby’s built-up boot, and make the most beautiful handbags, because the boot shop Smith had been born a Schmidt.

  Most in town chose to ignore or forget Mr Smith’s German origin, but not Nicholas Squire.

  Helen sniffed in a long sobbing breath and her ears blocked, blocked up so totally that she couldn’t swallow. She couldn’t remember crawling into the old wardrobe, hadn’t crawled in there for years, but that’s where she was curled now. There had been enough air in there when she was small, she’d been able to rock herself in there when she was small. She wasn’t small now, and her rocking was rocking the whole wardrobe.

  Squire daughters who were almost sixteen, old enough to become engaged, did not hide in wardrobes, in locked rooms.

  Helen hadn’t known that the key to Arthur’s room fitted her lock. It had been in her pocket since her parents left for Willama. Though she had no real recollection of locking it, she must have because her father was hammering at that door, demanding she open it.

  She rocked harder.

  Rule: Squire daughters were locked in their room; they did not lock themselves in their room.

  He had too many rules. Too hard to remember all of them. So much easier to do nothing, to want nothing, to let him decide what she ought to want – let him decide who she ought to marry, when she ought to marry.

  Rachael had married who he’d wanted her to marry. Now she was dead. Not passed away, but dead like Freddy was dead, and Great-grandmother Molly, and Grandma Lorna, and the five sons Olivia lost at birth, and Jennifer and Arthur’s tiny girl was dead. Dead, dead, dead and gone, and now Rachael was dead and gone and Helen wanted to be dead with her. If she stayed in this wardrobe long enough, eventually she must run out of air.

  Father Ryan had been here. She hadn’t heard his car drive in but she’d heard it drive out again. Couldn’t mistake that car’s roar. Everyone laughed at Father Ryan when they heard him driving up to the church. They wouldn’t be laughing this morning when he arrived an hour late.

  ‘Open this door, Helen!’

  Perhaps her father felt she ought to dress in something suitably modest and go to church with him.

  ‘Helen! Open this door immediately.’

  She rocked harder and the wardrobe rocked.

  Rule: Squire daughters must attend church each week, sit in the Squires’ pew, hat on, gloves on, stomach in, shoulders straight, never looking left or right.

  The Squire pew would be full on Tuesday. The church would be full for Rachael. Nicholas’s beautiful guest rooms would all be full by Monday night. All of his city friends would come, and Mrs Johnson and her girls would work from dawn to dark, running up and down that long L-shaped passage, feeding dozens in the big dining room.

  ‘You must come out, darling.’

  Now Olivia was out there pleading. Helen curled herself into a tighter ball, her knees hugged to her chest, rocking, rocking so hard the wardrobe tilted. Why wouldn’t it run out of air so she could go to sleep and never wake up again? Not a tiny crack of light came through that door, so how could air possibly come through?

  The bell had stopped its ringing, the organ was playing, the priest was in his pulpit, though all was not well with the world. That old coot hadn’t been over to the hospital to give communion to Great-grandma Murphy, which would have only taken him a couple of minutes. She’d been sitting propped up in that hospital bed since eight o’clock, wearing her Sunday hat and refusing to break her fast, and was probably sitting there still – if she hadn’t passed out. Mary had tried to make her eat something, but at ninety-six, and too close to Heaven, old Gran was not planning on bringing God’s wrath down on her at this late stage of the game.

  Irene was still at the hospital though Mary hadn’t sighted her. Gwyneth was missing too, probably walking down by the common with Kelvin Curtin, who wasn’t a Catholic, and who she wasn’t supposed to be walking down by the common with, but did every Sunday. Most of Mary’s boys were up and gone, though two still clung to their beds.

  ‘Burn in hell then, you drunken little sods,’ Mary said, giving up on getting them to church. Her apron off, tossed over a chair, she picked up her hat and jammed it down hard on her head. ‘And if I’m not back by half past eleven, then one of you throw those potatoes and pumpkin in with my roast, or you won’t be eating any of it. And don’t use my sink to wash in. I’ve got bunnies soaking there in salt water. ‘Michael! Are you out there somewhere?’

  ‘I’m still here.’

  ‘You’re going to confession today, my lad.’

  ‘I haven’t done anything to confess.’

  ‘Don’t you lie to me,’ she said, making a beeline for the church. ‘Tuck that shirt in, and pull those pants up. The crotch is hanging down to your knees.’

  They chose seats close to the open door. Gwyneth wandered in and sat beside Mike. ‘You’re going to get it,’ she hissed in Mike’s ear.

  ‘Get what?’

  ‘Mr Curtin saw you this morning –’

  ‘Saw him doing what?’ Mary asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ her offspring chorused.

  Reg Curtin owned land opposite Squire’s bush paddock. He’d probably been out picking peaches at dawn when Mike carried Squire’s latest ‘No Trespassing’ sign down to the river and chucked it in. He kept his head low as Father Ryan started up, then stopped. Jeanne Johnson, followed by a swarm of younger Johnsons, entered the church, genuflecting as they searched for seats. Seating that mob usually took considerable time, but with many of the men gone to Willama to join the search party, there was plenty of room today.

  Father Ryan got on with his sermonising, gave communion, gave his blessing, then told the unmarried chaps to stay where they were. There weren’t a lot – and a couple of those tried to get out. Ryan caught them. Mike was more than willing to remain in his seat – until the priest reached into his pew and grabbed his ear, twisted it. ‘Be off with you, Michael Murphy.’

  ‘I’m unmarried, Father.’

  ‘Get along with your mother, or you’ll be getting a sharp clip on the ear.’

  Mike skedaddled out the other end of the pew and into a swarm of blowflies. The town common, directly behind the church, and the slaughter yards, not much further down, were breeding grounds for flies, and most of those blowflies were devout – or had a liking for bluestone walls and s
hade; they swarmed around the Catholic church on hot days. A few flew indoors for the lecture; Mike hoped they were male and unmarried. And Dr Hunter followed them in! He definitely didn’t qualify. He wasn’t a Catholic.

  ‘You heard him. Get along home, Michael,’ Mary said.

  ‘What about confession? You said I had to go.’

  Like hell he would, but there was something going on here this morning, and a thirteen year old boy who had a patch of black hair growing under each arm and a bit more growing somewhere lower down had to learn what he could, wherever he could learn it. He scooted around the side of the church to where Billy O’Brien waited, his boots off. They’d been learning what they could, where they could, for two years now, and had taken on the task of keeping the hinges of the vestry door well greased so the Molliston lads could continue their learning. The door had no lock. There were a couple of old slide bolts on the inside, which no one had slid in fifty years. They’d seized. Who was likely to rob the house of God?

  With no one watching, except a couple of retired horses leaning over the common fence, Mike removed his boots before opening the vestry door fast and closing it faster. Two more blowflies got in. Keeping low then, the boys crawled, and the blowflies flew, closer to the action. Ryan was in his pulpit, Rob Hunter at his side. Whatever this was about, it was something big enough to make those two get their heads together.

  ‘Lust,’ the priest roared. There was nothing Ryan enjoyed more than getting his teeth into illicit gratification of urges and the disaster that might befall those who engaged in such gratification. The boys had listened in to a few of these talks.

  ‘The two great forces of life are appetite and procreation, which God intended should be of benefit and happiness to man, but through abuse, these appetites have become the agencies of disease and great misery. The man and the woman who degrade, who debase those of God’s most precious gifts to the gross gratification of passion, fall like Lucifer, from the heights of heaven to the depths of hell.’