BECKER

by Gordon Reid

  ‘The one on the western side, Albert Henschke.’

  ‘Henschke?’

  ‘He says he knows you.’

  ‘From where, I wonder?’

  ‘No idea. But his son says it’s all about a girl named Caitlin.’

  ‘Caitlin?’ Bob twitched a little, at least his hands and feet did.

  ‘You told us about Caitlin, the Irish girl who worked for the Mountford family in Victoria—’

  ‘So I did, at that pleasant lunch at your place. I went on a bit, didn’t I? Yes, Caitlin was my mother.’

  ‘And she married Robert Elliott, who worked on the Mountford property?’

  ‘Yes, he was the groom.’

  ‘What about the Mountford family?’

  ‘The family?’

  ‘Did they have children?

  ‘Children? Yes, I believe there were two sons.’

  ‘What were their names?’

  ‘Their names? Oh, I don’t know—. There was one named Roderick. Not a decent sort of chap at all.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I think he was a cruel sort of fellow. Got into some sort of trouble, with a girl, I think.’

  ‘A girl named Caitlin?’

  ‘Oh, no, no, no. My mother was a girl of unquestionable virtue. No, some other girl.’

  Becker hesitated. Robert Elliott seemed to be disturbed. He’d put a hand to his head and bowed it, as if in thought. But his eyes were squeezed shut. Not a thinking sort of gesture, but a hurting.

  A goods train came in slowly. When it reached the station, a wall of air hit them. Bob Elliott had a hat. He always had a hat outdoors. Wouldn’t be seen dead in the street without it. He was sitting in shade and held the hat on his lap. It was in an old hat, but a good hat, the kind which is the mark of a man. A retired man, a prosperous man. Or, at least, a once-prosperous man. It was a long train, truck after truck, going south. They waited until it had gone.

  ‘What about him?’ Becker said.

  ‘Who? Oh, Roderick? Oh, he was kicked out. Cut out of his father’s will.’

  ‘You said he’d become a wreck.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘At the party.’

  ‘Oh, yes, well—’ He sat up, watching the last of the freight trucks go by, whirringly.

  ‘So he did.’

  ‘Did he ever marry?’

  ‘Roderick? I think he did later, much later. Or, perhaps he only lived with her. Or, even met her only once or twice. She was a shopkeeper’s daughter in Ballarat, I think. He may have worked for her father at one stage, but not for long, I’m sure. Not the kind to stick at a job. Always moving on, or being forced to move on. Or getting the sack, being so unpleasant to everyone. I heard he was always complaining that he’d been robbed. That he was going to the Supreme Court to get justice. Whether he ever did, I don’t know. Probably all talk. He was all talk, that fellow. A thorough brute, if you ask me.’

  ‘Did she have a child?’

  ‘The grocer’s daughter? I believe she did, out of wedlock.’

  ‘What was her name?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’

  ‘Was it Henschke?’

  ‘Henschke? Oh, I don’t—’ He rubbed his head. ‘It’s such a long time since I beard that name.’

  ‘You’ve heard that name?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I think it was Henschke’.

  ‘And the child’s name?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Albert Henschke?’

  ‘It could have been.’

  ‘Why not Mountford?

  ‘Mountford?’

  ‘His father’s name.’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe he’d left her by then. This was during the depression, the thirties. Lots of men on the roads then. It was awful, the depression, the Great Depression. I know, I lived through it. It was awful, being on the land,’ he added. ‘We still had something to eat, even if it was only bread and butter and sugar. And we didn’t have to beg. That must have been the worst part of it, going up to a back door, cap in hand, and asking for something, anything, even a few crusts. To eat.’ Old Bob gazed away across the rail lines and the roofs of suburban Wagga Wagga. ‘I still have the letter, you know,’ he said.

  ‘What letter?’

  ‘The one Christopher wrote to Caitlin. Would you like to see it?’

  ‘Who was Christopher?’

  ‘The other Mountford son. He was in love with Caitlin.’

  ‘In love with your mother?’

  ‘Oh, no, she wasn’t married then. Would you like to see it?’

  ‘Yes, I would.’

  ‘It’s all about the other girl, you know.’

  They went back to the house in Railway Street. Bob had it preserved in a plastic cover in a folder marked Personal. He handed it to Becker. ‘It makes for ugly reading,’ he said. ‘I’ve never shown it to Robbie, but seeing that you are a member of the family—’

  Becker read it out front, seated in a chair aged by rain and shine. Bob sat in another, its cane backing beginning to break. It would soon need repairing, if it were not to collapse. The writing was scrawly, the kind you might dash off in a hurry and possibly in very poor light. And possibly in a highly emotional state. It was crumpled and worn, even yellowed with age. But it was legible enough.

  ‘I have thought about it for a long time,’ he read, ‘I can no longer assuage my guilt. I was there when my brother, Roderick, murdered that girl. We were out walking, now and then taking a pot shot at a rabbit. At least Roddy was. We were taking turns with the one rifle. I was having the occasional shot but deliberately missing, when we came to this hut or cabin, behind the Elephant, smoke coming out of the riveted sheet-iron chimney.

  ‘It was the Colley place, such poor people, but decent. You probably know them, my dear. Roderick went up to the door and knocked, loudly and even shouting, ‘Open up, Colley! I know you’re at home. I can see the smoke!’ There was a pause before the door opened. It was not Mr Colley, but I think the girl herself, Miss Kiera Colley, sixteen or seventeen. Roddie said, Is your fairther at home?’ Trying to be funny and sound like an Irishman. ‘No, sir,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘Ah,’ he said, ‘in such case, are you at home, my darling?’ ‘Yes, yes, sir,’ she replied, very courteous. She knew who he was, so she invited us in, and gave us tea and toast, black tea it was. All the time, Roderick was eyeing her and saying what a lovely colleen she was. And asking if she’d ever been kissed. ‘Yes, of course,’ she said, ‘once or twice.’ ‘Have you ever been—?’ he then asked. At which point she leapt away, but he went after her.

  ‘I was horrified. I tried to stop him, saying, ‘Don’t, don’t, don’t! Leave her be, Roddie!’ But he pushed me out, even pointed the rifle at me and said: “Get out, get out, if you don’t want to be in it!” I was quite shocked that my own brother, up to whom I had always looked, would wish to do such a thing to such a fair young girl, she fighting back at him. I went outside, crying to myself, horrified. And frightened. I walked around and around, hearing her screams. Then the silence.

  ‘I was sitting on an old bench under an old pear tree, my head in my hands, when he came out. This must have been some fifteen minutes later, stuffing in his shirt and buttoning up his breeches. Holding the rifle, leery.

  “You want to have a go?” he asked. ‘

  “No, no, no!” I said. “How could you do such a thing to a girl?”

  “Ah, go and—her,” he said. His language was disgusting. “It’ll make a man of you,” he said.

  “What?” I said.

  “No?” he said. “No? No? I always thought you were a spineless little—No spunk in you, no spunk at all! All right,” he said, “if that’s the way you feel.”

  ‘He went back inside and nothing happened at first, although I thought I could hear her
weeping. One short cry after another, like the cry a baby makes before it finally goes to sleep. I could hear him speaking to her, short words, silences between. As if he were asking her something and she being not able to reply.

  ‘Then an explosion.

  ‘I couldn’t believe my ears. He had shot her.

  ‘He came out, holding the rifle in one hand, closing the door with the other. And looking around, quickly. “All right” he said. “Let’s—off.” Like a faithful dog, which can forgive its master anything, I followed him home, stumbling. I could not see, so I followed his legs and boots. Forgive me for writing such loathsome words to you, my dear. But I must tell someone, someone who has my heart and admiration and of whom I am so unworthy.’

  At this point, the writing was difficult to read. Christopher seemed to be saying, or at least trying to say, to Caitlin that he loved her. He adored her. He used to watch her as she went about her duties. His heart leaping at the sight of her. And had hoped (this is especially obscure) that one day they would stroll together through the almond orchard in bloom. She with her hand on his arm and he with his heart in heaven, as his wife. There were many crossings and scribbles and a last few unintelligible words, which had plunged over the bottom of the page. It was signed, however, sideways on the right-hand border and dated. Although he seemed to have forgotten the year. Not that it mattered in the circumstances. The gist of the last rambling paragraphs, however, was that Caitlin would inherit the lot.

  ‘I think he then took the poison,’ Bob said. ‘Lysol, as it turned out.’

  ‘Lysol?’

  ‘Pretty common back in those days. Often used by suicides.’

  Becker put it back in its plastic folder and handed it to Bob.

  ‘The lot? She got the lot of a big estate?’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it seems Christopher would have married her if possible. His father, old Sir Ralph, would never have agreed. The boy wanted to give her what he could not now keep, it being on his conscience so badly. But he never confessed. Never told a soul, until he wrote that letter, which now lay upon the kitchen table. For all to see.’

  Another train came in, slowly this time. Also, southbound. You’d think the express, being an express, would soon catch up with the freight train, but it would have to stop at several main stations, such as Albury and Wangaratta and so on. The freight would not stop. It would roll on and on and on like old Father Time until it reached Melbourne. Inexorably.

  They sat there, watching passengers getting off and on. The guard hung out of a door at the back, watching up and down. He pressed a buzzer and the brakes went off. The express began to move, two big diesels straining. Slowly at first, then faster, it moved on and away, out of sight, leaving the two men sitting and looking at nothing in particular.

  It was that kind of day, when it was good to look at nothing in particular.

  ‘Could I have a copy?’ Becker said. ‘Of the letter?’

  Bob Elliot was surprised. ‘The letter?’

  ‘I want to show it to someone.’

  Chapter 27

  Late that day, Becker went to see old Bert again. It was a good walk. About two-hundred yards to the boundary fence, then another three-hundred to Bert’s house. Nothing but weeds all the way from the boundary to his door. There had been fences each side of the driveway from the front gate to the house, but they had deteriorated over the years. There still some Cyclone wire on metal stakes around the house, but they did not stop the weeds—dandelions and skeleton weed and rye grass and thistles, not to mention the bindi-eyes and Bathurst burrs. All the noxious weeds you could think of. Why the local council had not forced Bert to get rid of them years ago, Becker did not know. Perhaps it had tried and given up? How do you force an old reprobate like Bert to do anything? You could fine him, but he had no money. You could perhaps stick him in jail, but the weeds would get worse. You could take away his title, but it was freehold land—not leasehold. He could fight you in the courts for years. And if you won, who would buy it? It would take years to get rid of the weeds.

  Becker knocked on the door. It took some time for Bert to get to the door. Blue came out first and sniffed him, then went back inside. At last, Bert’s head appeared. Becker tried to hand over a copy he’d made at a shop in town.

  ‘You should read this, Bert.’

  ‘What the ’ell is that?’

  ‘A copy of a letter. It explains everything.’

  ‘Who writ it?’

  ‘Christopher, before he died.’

  ‘Christopher?’

  ‘Christopher Mountford.’

  ‘Mountford?’ He spoke as if he’d never heard the name.

  ‘He inherited the property.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Christopher did, then he killed himself. It’s all in the letter. It’s his last will and testament, in effect. I took a couple of copies. You can keep this one.’

  Becker tried to force it upon him, but Bert pushed it back.

  ‘Christopher fuckin’ Mountford?’

  He was not looking at Becker. Anywhere but at him, mostly over his head. Didn’t seem able to see. His mind full of failed expectations. And a glassy sort of hate.

  ‘Git the hell out of ’ere—’

  ‘He left everything to Caitlin. Your father was not entitled to anything.’

  ‘Git out or I’ll set the dog onto yer!’

  ‘Bob Elliott is not responsible for the fact that everything went his mother’s way. It’s just how it was. No-one is responsible for what happened to your father, except himself. Can’t you get that in to your stupid head?’

  Old Bert leaned against the door jamb. He seemed to slide down, not against the jamb but inside himself. As if some ancient dream had come to nothing. Or, that had come to something that you could never be put into words. It was the hopelessness of hoping.

  ‘Bob Elliot’s mother had four wheat blocks once. They were sittin’ pretty. Then the banks took three off them. That left them with one back in the bad times. But they battled on. They stuck it out. They won through. You’ve got one block. You could be growin’ wheat, but you do nothing, nothing at all! You let this fucking place run wild. It’s a disgrace. It’s full of weeds and rabbits and snakes and neglect and despair. It’s a fuckin’ eyesore, Bert. You should be bloody well ashamed of yourself!’

  Becker was angry, stamping around, startling Blue. Who was sniffing and snorting, his rheumy little eyes going this way and that like two frantic flies in a bottle. He caught his breath.

  ‘Why don’t you sell up, Bert? This place’d sell if it wasn’t such a dump.’

  Bert said nothing. His arms were folded and his eyes lowered, perhaps closed. He had slipped right down inside himself. So that his soul, if he had one, was down in his laceless boots.

  ‘Y’d take me place?’ he said, as if to himself.

  ‘I’ll make you an offer. I’ll give you three-hundred for it.’

  ‘Three hundred?’

  ‘Thousand.’

  Bert said nothing.

  ‘I’d clean up this place and do something with it. Plant some sorghum or canola or—’ He was so angry he couldn’t think straight.

  ‘Y’d take me place?’ Still not looking up.

  ‘It’d be good riddance. This place is an eyesore. A blot on the landscape.’

  ‘I ain’t sellin’.’

  ‘Have you got a pension, Bert?’

  No reply.

  ‘Is that how you support yourself? You get a pension when you’re sitting on three-hundred thousand?’

  No answer.

  ‘You’re a cheat, Bert. Bludging off the taxpayers, aren’t you?’

  ‘Got a pension,’ Bert said, not loud. More like a hurt undertone.

  ‘You’ve got a pension? What kind of pension?’

  ‘For me war effort.’
r />   ‘You mean a veteran’s pension?’

  ‘For me service. For the compensation.’

  ‘You mean you’ve got a disability?’

  Bert didn’t nod or shake or say anything. He was stumped. It should have been obvious from the start.

  ‘You were in New Guinea?’

  No answer.

  ‘All right, I’m sorry.’ Becker looked around, calming gown.

  ‘Shaggy Ridge.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Shaggy Ridge.’

  ‘What?’

  Bert was still not looking up.

  ‘Me and me mates, we went up Shaggy Ridge.’

  ‘You went up Shaggy Ridge?’

  Becker had heard of it. His father used to tell how his own father had fought the Japs in New Guinea, but that was long ago. Back in ’43.

  ‘They was firin’ down on us. Men fallin’ off the mountain, screamin’ Bert took a deep breath, remembering. ‘Was one of the first to the top.’

  ‘You got to the top?’

  ‘To the Pimple, they called it.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘A Jap was standin’ there, lookin’ at’s. Holdin’ a rifle.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Knew I was a gonna. Then a shell hit’s.’

  ‘Hit you?’

  ‘Hit’s both.’

  ‘From down below? One of your own?’

  ‘Tryin’ to support us. They was fallin’ short. Because of the angle, straight up almost.’

  ‘What happened to the Jap?’

  ‘Cut to bits.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Standin’ there with his guts hangin’ out. Bit of shrapnel, y’ know.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Then ’e fell on top of us.’

  ‘On top of you?’

  ‘Yeah, guts an’ all. Didn’t say a word. Still alive and lookin’ at’s. Then ’e closed his eyes an’ died.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Got’s too.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘In the shoulder an’ arm an’ the ’ead.’

  ‘In the head?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He touched his above the right ear. There was a scar now that you looked. ‘Couldn’t get that bit out, not in the bush. So they flew’s right back to Australia. In one of them, DC3 things. First time I ever flewed. They dug in and got it out. Townsville, that was.’