Wet Graves

by Peter Corris

  Some of the gates had listed so badly they were immovable; the hinges on others had rusted solid; a few had been nailed or boarded shut or simply built over. By squinting up at the backs of the houses and trying to calculate where the divisions of the terrace fell, I reckoned I was able to distinguish the back of number 43A. The house differed in no way from the others—same rusty iron roof, drooping guttering and water-stained walls. But the gate was firm on its posts and the hinges had been recently oiled. The paving in the lane was a sort of cobblestone that had cracked and lifted in places, further impeding the opening of the gates. But at the gate of 43A the paving had been mended, pounded flat. My theory, that someone had been listening in the house when I’d made my enquiry about Stan Livermore and had had the time and means to leave and kill old Stan, was looking stronger. Look for a lean man, I thought, with an oilcan and a mallet.

  I braced my back against the brick wall and inched my feet up the solid gatepost until I was high enough to straddle the gate and climb over. The gate had a simple barrel bolt which I slid back experimentally—smooth as silk. I left it open and approached the house. A short, light access on the right-hand side, narrow set of brick steps to the back door, and a decayed, unfastened flywire screen with too many holes in it to keep flies out, let alone trouble burglars. On the solid door was a morticed lock, old and loose. A jiggle with a piece of thin metal (plastic never works for me), a downward pressure and twist on the handle, and I had the door open. Not exactly a break and enter, more a bend and enter.

  I was in a small back porch which had been boarded up and provided with a couple of small windows. There was a narrow bed and about a seventh-hand cupboard; a cardboard box by the bed contained dirty socks and several copies of a racing tip sheet. Somehow this didn’t look like the room of the late Stan Livermore, secretary of the Veterans of the Bridge Society. I went through a curtained doorway to the kitchen, which was like old kitchens everywhere in the city—lino on the surfaces, brass on the plumbing and cockroaches in the woodwork. There was a smell of some sort in the air, vaguely sweet and recognisable. The stove was still hot and I found an empty Rosella tomato soup can in a bucket under the sink. Memories of a Sydney boyhood. We used to pour a bit into the mugs, top up the can with milk and heat it. No saucepans, no spoons. Somewhere in this house was a traditionalist.

  I moved through to the passage which led to the stairs. I know these kinds of houses. On ground level there’d be a front room, with the window opening onto the street, and two rooms upstairs. A bathroom off the landing. The verandah to the front room up top would be built-in, like the porch below. During the Depression these houses slept up to twenty people. My guess was that Betty Tracey occupied the front room by the door. That’d give her the greatest control over the movements of the people in the house. First grab at visitors and the mail, best snoop at the street. I went quietly down to the door and listened but there was no sound No chance of Betty being the soup eater, I was pretty sure you’d be able to hear her at it from the backyard.

  That left the stairs, which from the look of them—ricketty treads, gap-toothed banisters, lifting lino—would certainly creak. No chance of surprise. I marched up the first flight calling, “Mr Livermore. Mr Livermore! Are you in?”

  A man appeared at the top of the stairs. “Who are you?” he said. “How did you get in here?”

  “Mrs Tracey let me in. I met her outside.” I waved my hand in the direction of the street. “I paid her five dollars and she let me in.”

  “Five dollars, mmm. That’ll keep her happy in the pub for a few hours.” He came down the stairs far enough into the dim light to enable me to see him. Bald, sixty maybe, strong-looking, in a heavy cable-knit sweater and flannel trousers. “Didn’t she tell you Mr Livermore was dead?”

  “No. No, she didn’t. I’m sorry to hear that. Recently, was it?” ‘

  “The other day. She’s a shameless old extortionist. That’s what she is. Well, afraid that’s the way of it.”

  “Ah, I’m a journalist. Brian Kelly. I was hoping to talk to Mr Livermore about the Veterans of the Bridge Society. Thought there might be a piece in it, you know. Mr …?”

  “Lithgow, Charles Lithgow. A journalist, eh? I’m a bit of a writer myself. Who d’you write for, Mr Kelly?”

  “Freelance.” I went up a few more steps; he came down a few and we shook hands. He had a hard, calloused hand, very strong grip. “That’s a pity. There’s a lot of interest in the bridge, what with the tunnel going through and the toll going up.” I tried a smile.

  Mr Lithgow’s slightly wrinkled but composed features arranged themselves in a corresponding smile. “It’s a shame you missed him. I really enjoyed talking to him myself. I’m sure he had a lot of memorabilia, in fact I know he had. His room’s full of it.” He gestured above and behind him. “Would you like to see it?”

  “Do you think that’d be all right?”

  Lithgow retreated a few steps. “I’m sure it would. All he lived for, really. Poor old chap. I’m sure he’d be pleased there was someone taking an interest.”

  We went up the stairs, past the landing, to the top floor. The light improved a little, coming in through a room with an open door. Lithgow pointed to the closed door opposite. “Stan’s room.”

  “No family or friends to …” I shrugged, “handle his affairs?”

  Lithgow opened the door. “Apparently not Lonely old soul, apart from the members of his society, of course.”

  “Many of them?”

  “A few.”

  I felt strangely reluctant to go into the dead man’s room. I was disconcerted by Lithgow’s manner. His clothes weren’t expensive and he wore a slightly shabby air but he smelled very dean. His voice was dear and his accent was precise; he sounded old-fashioned rather than well-educated, almost as if he’d picked up a set of mannerisms from a play or a book. “Not a member of the society yourself, Mr Lithgow?”

  “Me? Heavens, no. I suppose you’re wondering why I’m living in a place like this?”

  I took out my notebook. “Would you have the names of the society members? Yes, I’m wondering, but you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

  “No objection at all. I’m retired from the public service. Had a lifelong interest in this area. Generations of Lithgows lived here until, well, until I broke the tradition. But now I’m back and I’m writing a book about the old place. What d’you think of that?”

  “Sounds fine to me, Mr Lithgow. Are you sure about going into Mr Livermore’s room?”

  “Of course, of course.” He pushed the door wide and we went into the room. It was rather dark and cold, being on the side of the house away from the sun. A small window let in a little eastern light. It was also obsessively neat and dean. The bed, with a thin, grey blanket on top, was made with military precision; all books and papers were set on shelves with aligned edges and right-angled piles. The few personal items on the chest of drawers and bedside table—comb, bus timetable, nail scissors—were clean and carefully laid out.

  “An orderly man,” I said.

  “Very. And a very nice old chap, too. But we all have to go. I just hope I get long enough to do this book. Well, Mr Kelly, I have my researches to get on with. Take as long as you like. I’m just across the hall if you want me.”

  He ducked his head and almost bowed himself out of the room. I set about a systematic search, which Stan Livermore’s efficient habits made easy. He had a collection of books about the bridge, including those I’d seen in the library, and a good deal of related material—pamphlets, magazine articles, newspaper clippings and correspondence. What it all came to was an obsession, a fixed idea that the building of the bridge had exacted an enormous toll of lives and happiness. The “dislocation and eviction of people from houses on the land resumed for the approaches, the closing of schools and businesses, the diversion of traffic—they were all documented. There was a voluminous recording of the accidents and deaths, and a minute tracing of consequence
s for wives and families. In the bottom drawer of the chest were files on scores of cases which ran from medical reports to correspondence with members of parliament. It was all alphabetical; all the handwriting was clear and legible; all clippings and photographs were annotated with dates and sources. It was too much of a good thing.

  I worked through it using the only system I could think of—checking for names. Livermore appeared to have had no special interest in any of the bridge builders. The names came up—Ennis, Madden, Glover, Bradfield—but none was traced beyond the completion of the bridge. There were files on the sixteen men killed, but these petered out in the 1950s, as if twenty years was as long as anyone cared to remember them. The society had devoted itself to getting a suitable memorial for the dead, helping the families of some of the injured men and attempting to keep people who had worked on the bridge in touch with each other. It seemed a vain task. There was a large bundle of letters returned from the post office marked “address unknown”.

  Stan Livermore himself had been a riveter who worked for five years on the job without suffering injury. I found a complimentary reference to Captain David Guthrie, for his intervention in the case of a worker who had been sacked for being asleep on the job. Captain Guthrie had demonstrated that fumes from an ill-maintained piece of equipment had overcome the man, who was reinstated. Casting about, I found no reference to anyone named Tracey or Burton or Lithgow. No Hardys either, or Broadways. I was running out of analytical tools fast, and aware that I might be running out of time. Lithgow had given me carte blanche, but that wouldn’t cut much ice if Betty Tracey returned and blew my cover. I did a last search for active members of the society as of the latest date and came up with six names. But the last time these individuals and Stan Livermore had convened a meeting was almost a year back. Still, it was something.

  As I was tidying up the files I wondered if the old men had turned their attention to the new disruption caused by the harbour tunnel—the extra traffic through North Sydney, the noise of the tunnelling, the pollution of the harbour. Probably not. Their obsession was with the past and the people now being plagued by the tunnel-builders would have had as much trouble getting a hearing from them as from other Sydneysiders. In a way, it was the same story all over again—the greater good of the greater number and to hell with the rest.

  I left old Stan’s room pretty much the way I’d found it and closed the door on his life and his life’s work. I’d filled several pages of my notebook and was still riffling through them when I knocked on Lithgow’s door.

  “Come.”

  Lithgow’s room was in marked contrast to Livermore’s; it had two windows which seemed to let in two hundred per cent more light and warmth. It was also very untidy. The bed was unmade and papers and books spilled across from a card table to the bed and onto the floor. Charles Lithgow was sitting on a bentwood chair at the card table, scribbling in a large bound notebook. As in Livermore’s room, the bed and chest of drawers were standard op-shop issue, but the bright tartan blanket thrown over the bed gave this room a lift A head, shoulders and chest photograph of a man in military uniform was set on the chest of drawers at such an angle that the subject seemed to be in a position to survey all four corners of the room.

  At my appearance, Lithgow pushed back his chair and reached down into a large leather briefcase at his feet. He held up a brown bottle with a yellow label. “Too early for a sherry, Mr Kelly?”

  “When in Rome,” I said.

  He laughed. “Too true. They start early around here, let me tell you. Not like in the old days of course, but the traditions linger. I’ll just get a glass. Have a seat.”

  I sat in the only available place, on the bed. The room had very little vacant floor space. Beside the bed was a metal toolbox with the lid open. The few tools, hammer, heavy shifting wrench and lighter spanners, clamps and screwdrivers seemed appropriate to Lithgow’s strong, hard-handed grip. But he was a man of surprises; he got up and moved across the room to where a wine rack had been installed under the window ledge. I could see a dozen or so bottles in place, and an elaborate metal and wood corkscrew lying on top of the rack. Lithgow took two squat glasses from the window ledge and polished them with a tissue. He set them on the card table, cleared off the papers he’d been working on, and filled them with sherry from a bottle he selected with great care.

  He handed me my glass. “Cheers.”

  “Thank you.” I sipped the very dry sherry. Sherry’s not a bad drink; there’s hundreds of men in Sydney who’ll tell you the same. “Are you a wine buff, Mr Lithgow?”

  “Heavens, no. Perish the thought. I just like a good snort after work or a … well, any time appropriate, really. Did you find anything helpful in old Stan’s room?”

  I sipped some more sherry and turned a page or two in my notebook. “Possibly. No substitute for talking to the man himself, of course. I notice you call him old Stan, as Mrs Tracey did. Have you been in the house long, Mr Lithgow?”

  “Oh, a while. Long enough to pick up the local habits, you know.”

  “Mm. Were you here on the day he died?”

  “I was, why?”

  This was tricky ground. I couldn’t reveal that I’d been at the house earlier. My only recourse was to the Betty Tracey ploy again. I grinned. “Mrs Tracey told me that there was someone else here visiting Mr Livermore. Another five dollars, this cost me. But I suppose she might have meant you?”

  “No, no.” Lithgow sipped his sherry with evident enjoyment. “I was working away. I did talk to old Stan from time to time, but there wasn’t much he could tell me, you know. The bridge is terribly important to the history of the area, but it’s not the whole story by any means.”

  I nodded. “He was obsessed, you mean?”

  “I’m afraid so. And he had some followers still. In point of fact, they held a little meeting here that day and a few stayed behind after Stan left to keep his vigil. I think one of them might have arrived too late to see Stan. They’re old, you see, and not always too sure of the time.”

  “You know about that, the bridge at sunset thing?”

  “Oh, yes.Now look, I don’t want you to think I’m a terrible snooper, I’m not. But I do keep a diary and I did provide them with a bottle of sherry.” He held up his glass so that the light shone through the clear, pale liquid. “Not this stuff, of course.”

  I was leaning forward eagerly, too eagerly. I tried to transfer the enthusiasm to the sherry, holding up my own glass to the light and taking a long sip. “It is very good. Do you mean you know the names of the men who were here that day?”

  “Yes, I believe so. Why? Is it important?”

  I improvised fast. “Well, one of them will probably become the head of the society now, wouldn’t you say? If I can talk to him I can still do the story as planned.”

  Lithgow frowned and drank some more sherry. ‘Yes. See what you mean. Just a minute. I should have the names in my diary. Poor old chaps quite mad, you know Quite mad.”

  18

  While he was rummaging in his papers I stood up and took a look out the window. I hadn’t seen it at first because of the way the light fell on the glass, but the view of the bridge was breathtaking. The structure seemed to rise up almost beneath my feet, and to dominate the near and far distance.

  “Wonderful, isn’t it?” Lithgow said. “One of the reasons I took the room.”

  “It sure is.” I turned away from the window. “How’re you doing there?”

  He seemed to have difficulty tearing his eyes away from the view. “Oh, I’m pretty sure I can turn it up. Hold on a minute. Another sherry?”

  I shook my head and tried to curb my impatience. For all I knew, Betty Tracey might stay in some pub all day, or she might’ve gone to the shop for a packet of tea. I noticed a large mug sitting on the floor near where Lithgow had been working. It was red-rimmed inside. Soup and sherry, I thought. Well, it’s his stomach. I examined the photograph on Lithgow’s chest of drawers. There was a stron
g family resemblance. The soldier had the same broad, high forehead and wide jaw. His face, like Lithgow’s, looked almost too big for the shoulders. Same light eyes and relaxed expression. Lieutenant Lithgow, 1st AIF. Several campaign ribbons, carefully tinted by the photographer.

  “My father,” Lithgow said. “He was at Gallipoli and the Somme.”

  “I had a grandfather did the same,” I said. “Then he went off and got himself killed in the north Russia campaign. How’d your father come out of it all?”

  “Were you in the army yourself?”

  I nodded. “Malaya. You?”

  Lithgow didn’t reply. He held up a card. “Here we are. The date was the 12th, right?”

  “That sounds right.”

  “Stan had three visitors—Perce Templeton, Harry Case and Merv Dent. With old Stan himself, I think that made up the whole of the society.”

  I wrote the names down, trying not to seem overly anxious. “They were still here when Stan left?”

  “I think so. Yes.”

  “Uh huh. Well, I wonder which of them I should see. You say one arrived late. Maybe the least keen. One of the others’d be more likely to go into the chair, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I really don’t know.”

  “Who was the late one?”

  Lithgow shrugged. “I couldn’t say.”

  “Never mind. This is very helpful, Mr Lithgow. You wouldn’t have any addresses, would you?”

  Lithgow examined his card. “I believe Messrs Templeton and Case live at a retirement village in Gladesville. Mr Dent lives somewhere hereabouts. I’ve used him as a source. Let me see.” He went back to rummaging. “Ah, yes. Twenty-two Windmill Lane.”

  I made notes. There was a drop or two left in my sherry glass. I drained them and put the glass down in front of the portrait of the soldier. “Many thanks, Mr Lithgow. Big help.” I found myself imitating his clipped speech. Definitely time to go. We shook hands, and he ushered me out as far as the landing.