BECKER

by Gordon Reid

  ‘But you took the mountain?’

  ‘Yeah, we took it.’

  ‘How did you feel about that?’

  ‘Didn’t care if I fuckin’ lived or died. Not with a bit of metal in me ’ead. Didn’t know much about it, anyway. Couldn’t flamin’ well think or anythin’.’

  Becker gathered himself. The sun had gone down, but the sky was still alight. Like a great big bushfire somewhere out of sight in the west.

  ‘I apologise, Bert.’

  ‘Ah—’ He still hadn’t looked up, as if he felt rotten about his life and the whole rotten struggle to make something of it.

  Blue had settled down, head on crossed paws.

  Becker stepped off the verandah.

  ‘If you ever want to sell, Bert—’

  The old man did not reply, but he did take a deep breath and shifted his weight and stood up a bit for himself.

  ‘I ain’t sellin’,’ he said.

  ‘Good night, then.’

  Becker had gone only a few yards, when Bert said again, as if to himself: ‘Gonna die ’ere. In me own ’ome.’

  The sooner the better, Becker thought. And walked on home.

  Chapter 28

  Everything was going swimmingly. In a few days, all had been arranged. Robyn hadn’t had to do a thing. Anika was very bossy. She saw that the caterers knew exactly what to do and when. She was a good neighbour. They had known each other for a year now. Took to each other like ducks to water, although Anika was nearly thirty years older. Amiable, affectionate, generous and always willing to give a helping hand. Robyn was excited by the thought of having a big party and being the lady of the house with nothing to do—happily and wondrously sitting back, indicating to the hired help. Empty glasses here, more nibbles there. Quite worn out by thinking rather than by doing. Went to sleep each night with a smile on her face. Then she’d think of someone else who should be invited. The list of invitees grew and grew almost daily, so when the big day came, there were more than fifteen.

  On Friday, the day before the party, Becker thought he’d try to get Bob and Albert Henschke together. Get them sorted out. Try to patch up things with Bert. He was a difficult old bastard, but a good man. Any man who had fought his way up Shaggy Ridge had to be a good man.

  He went across and knocked at Bert’s front door. Heard movement in the house, knocks and shuffles and screaks, possibly furniture being moved, a movement at a curtain. Old curtains, frayed. Holes here and there. They looked brown with age, like newspaper which has been lying out in the sun for days. Becker did not catch a face or even an eye. But he’d been inspected, he knew. Knew he was being brave, confronting an old bastard who had a shotgun, an old Hollis. The stock hand-carved in London. A collector’s piece, in fact.

  The door opened an inch or two.

  An eye appeared.

  ‘Good day, Bert.’

  No reply, Becker thought the eye was going to disappear and the door to close. Instead, it opened and Bert Henschke stood there. Holding the Hollis, sure enough.

  ‘There’s no need for that, Bert.’

  His face was screwed up like an old dishcloth. Wrung out.

  ‘You got that fuckin’ letter again?’

  ‘It’s nothing like that.’

  ‘Don’t read no letters, not from the taxation people or the local council or the Lands Board or the noxious weeds people. Only from the Veterans. They look after me, all the doctorin’ and medicine and dentists an’ everythin’ I need. Which ain’t often.’

  ‘It’s nothing like that.’

  ‘What’s it got to do with you, anyway?’

  Becker avoided the point.

  ‘I had a talk with Bob Elliott.’

  ‘Had a talk? With this bloke that got it all?’

  ‘No, he didn’t get a cent. His mother did.’

  ‘His mother?’

  ‘She was Caitlin. Remember Caitlin?’

  ‘One who poisoned him?’

  ‘No, no, she didn’t poison anyone. It’s all in that letter. Anyway, I came to ask you if you’d like to meet Bob Elliott? Have a chat about the old days?’

  ‘With that bloke, Bob Elliott?’

  ‘Yeah, you see his father knew your father, Roderick.’

  ‘Roderick Mountford, y’mean?’

  ‘Yeah, Bob’s father was Robert Elliot, the groom at the Mountford place. At Mount Elephant.’

  ‘Mount Elephant?’

  ‘That’s right. Did you know your father? I mean, well?’

  ‘Did I know ’im?’ The door opened and Blue walked out, his nails tapping and scraping on the old boards.

  ‘Did I know ’im?’

  ‘I thought you lived with your mother. In Ballarat?’

  ‘Mother? What mother? I never ’ad no flamin’ mother. Might of been with ’er early on. When I was little. Might of looked after me. Don’t remember that far back, do I?’

  ‘How did you meet up with your father?’

  ‘Dunno. Must of come and got me. From ’er. Was with ’im f’years. Walked miles, ’im an’ me. On and on across the plains up in New South. Gettin’ hitches ’ere an’ there. We was all over the place.’

  ‘Around here?’

  ‘Around ’ere, out at Hay. Then Balranald one time. Went to school there for a bit. Swan Hill too. Echuca, all them places along the river. Plenty of fishin’.’

  ‘With your father?’

  ‘Always together. Until he died. Ruined, by a bitch of a woman that told all them lies about ’im. Said ’e done somethin’ bad—’

  ‘You mean Caitlin?’

  Bert stepped out. Or, not stepped out exactly, but standing in the doorway, half in and half out. He’d put the shotgun in a corner. Blue was still walking around, sniffing. His nails scratching.

  ‘It wasn’t Caitlin, Bert.’

  ‘And that bastard of a son, the young one—’

  ‘Christopher?’

  ‘Backed ’er up.’

  ‘That’s all wrong, Bert.’

  ‘Know what ’e told’s. Was with ’im when ’e died.’

  ‘He died?’

  ‘On the way to flamin’ Ballarat. Told’s the whole story, walkin’ along. Tryin’ t’ go back, ’e was.’

  ‘Back where?’

  ‘To the place, the big place by the Elephant. Canley Vale, it was called. Said it was ’is by right and it’d be mine one day.’

  ‘Mount Elephant is a long way south of Ballarat, especially if you’re walking.’

  ‘Yeah, ’e was always talkin’ about it. He owned it. He was the rightful owner.’

  ‘Why was he going back, Bert?’

  ‘Said ’e was gonna get a lawyer and make ’is claim. On a statutary deck.’

  ‘Declaration? What was he going to declare?’

  ‘It was all a pack of lies, what they writ.’

  ‘Who writ?’

  ‘That young sheila, Caitlin they called ’er. And that bloke, the groom. They was in it together, Dad said. An’ ’e c’d prove it.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘When was this? Back in the old days, when I was a kid. When everyone was out of work.’

  ‘Back in the depression?’

  ‘The thirties,’ Bert said.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘What happened to what?’

  ‘To your dad?’

  ‘To me dad?’ Bert scratched his head again. He did a lot of that. He was worse than old Blue. It was the only way he could think. Get his ideas and memories and words together, in some sort of logical order. Or, if not logical, then narrative order. Not so much for to tell, but to put his whole life together, while he still had some. Life, that is.

  They were walking on, cadging lifts now and then, gradually getting closer to Ballarat. Following some sort
of river all the way down from Echuca. Except that the river was going northward to the Mighty Murray, as they called it. Which is only a tiddler compared with the Nile and the Amazon and the Mississippi. Whereas, they were going southward toward the bold and yet listless granite hills of the residual Great Divide at Ballarat. And then the Grampians. And then Mount Arapiles. And then nothing. Merely flat land, the limestone deeps and wells and sinks and vineyards and on to the never ending and always cold grey and unwelcoming sea. White caps flying.

  ‘There was a lake, I think, or a dam. And there was all these dead trees, standin’ ’round in the water with their arms up, like dead men. An’ Dad was startin’ t’ complain.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Holdin’ ’is side and sayin’ Ow and Ah and God give me strength, an’ all those things people say when they’re in pain. And frightened,’ Bert added.

  ‘Frightened?’

  ‘Yeah, looked real worried. Short o’ breath. Said ’is ’eart was goin’ mad. We’d just passed all this water with the dead men, when ’e went down.’

  ‘He fell?’

  ‘Nah, just went down slow on ’is knees, but screamin’. Never ’eard a man screamin’ before.’

  ‘What’d you do?’

  ‘Ran to ’im. Dad, Dad, I said, what’s the matter? He keeled over, ’oldin’ is side, then ’is chest. Thought it must be the colic, which ’e’d ’ad a few times. But which usually went away. After ’e drunk a lot of water. But said ’e ’ad terrible pain in his left arm an’ in ’is froat. So ’e couldn’t swallow.’

  ‘What’d you do?’

  ‘Nothin’, I didn’t know what t’ do. Kept lookin’ for a car to come along, but—’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Bloke come out of the bush. Must’ve come from the water. Had a gun in one ’and an’ a brace o’ ducks in the other.’

  ‘What’d he do?’

  ‘Said Dad looked crook. I said, Is ’e dyin’?’

  ‘Don’t look too good at all, the man said. Said to stay right there and ’e’d get someone. Went home t’ phone. After about twenty minutes ’e come along with this old International utility an’ said ’e couldn’t get none. Think ’e meant the ambulance or the police or somethin’ like that. They was all too busy.’

  ‘So, what did you do?’

  ‘Lifted Dad up and put ’im on the tray.’

  ‘The back of the utility?’

  ‘Yeah, the man told’s to ’old his ’ead. To save it bangin’ on the boards. Then off we went. Makin’ poor time, because the road was just a dirt track and the pot ’oles and the gibbers was bad. But we got him to Ballarat and found the ’ospital and they took ’im in, the nurses. And told’s to wait out there by the door. Waited an’ waited, I did. Then this doctor come out and said we was too late. It was a ’eart attack.’

  ‘Gee, eh?’

  ‘Nothin’ they could do for ’im. Massive, the doctor said.’

  ‘So you were left alone? No-one to look after you?’

  ‘Ah, they got the police and the police asked where I come from. I said, Ballarat. Which was not a lie at all. I was born there. Knew that much. The policeman said, You’re in Ballarat, son. Have you got and any relatives ’ere? I said, Yes, Mum.

  ‘Your mother lives here? he said. Yeah, I said, in a shop. What’s ’er name? he said. I dunno, I said. What’s your name? he said. Mountford, I said, Albert Mountford. What shop does she live in? ’e said. Dunno, I said. But you can get bread an’ milk and all that stuff to eat there, Dad said. A grocery, you mean? ’e said. Yeah, I think that’s what you call it. I didn’t ’ave much education then, bein’ on the road with Dad all them years. So the police asked ’round. It took hours. Just waited there at the ’ospital, feeling that ’ungry. We ’adn’t eaten proper for several days. One of the nurses brought some sandwiches she made special. Then Mum turned up. Hadn’t seen ’er for seven or eight years, so I didn’t recognise ’er. But she said she was my mother by the sound of it. So, she took me ’ome to ’er place at the back of the shop, which was owned by ’er father, who was a German bloke with a pink face and a curly white beard. An’ black glasses. So big they made his eyes look like two little dots in the middle of all that pink face and all them square teeth. Mum said that was because ’e was German.’

  ‘You told me you never had a mother.’

  ‘I ’ad a mother like everyone ’as a mother, but I never lived with ’er until I was eleven or twelve.’

  ‘Then you stayed there with her?’

  ‘Yeah, for years, except when I worked on a farm with Grandpa’s brother and ’is wife and kids and got along with ’em. Mum said I was a Henschke now. And showed me the papers to prove it.’

  ‘Did you go to school?’

  ‘Yeah, on and off ’til I was fourteen. Then I left, which you could do then at fourteen. And got a job on the roads with the council. And ’elped Mum and Grandpa in the shop an’...’

  Bert’s voice trailed off. He had been scratching his head as if lifting his hat, which he was not wearing. It was a habit. And looking anywhere but at Becker. Although, often studying Blue lying on the verandah, scratching himself with one back leg. Thoughtfully, Becker thought. It was getting dark. Night was striding across the plains, chasing the sun. The long black shadows first, then the stars in the east. Something flew overhead, whirringly. Three or four black and winged shapes heading north. Probably ducks, but not quite. They didn’t make a ducky sound. Not the same whirring.

  ‘So, you stayed there in Ballarat?’

  ‘Until I was eighteen, then joined the Army, an’...’

  There was not much else to say. Somehow Bert Henschke had said everything you needed to know about him. About loss and poverty and obsession and death and survival and trying to make something out of yourself, despite everything. Becker looked at his watch. Had to hold it up to get enough light.

  ‘Hey, I’d better go. It must be dinner time.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Bert said.

  Blue sat up, expectantly. A decision had been made. It did not matter what. He was a dog and every little change was news worth having.

  ‘Thanks for telling me, Bert.’

  ‘Ah, well—’

  Becker stepped off the verandah, then remembered.

  ‘Hey, Bob Elliott will be here again next Saturday,’ he said. ‘That’s what I came to tell you.’

  ‘Bob Elliott?’

  ‘Yeah. You might like to come over, have a chat. Have a beer, meet some people.’

  ‘Wants to ’ave a chat, does ’e?’

  ‘If you feel like it.’

  ‘This a invite, is it?’

  ‘Seeing we’re neighbours. Any time after twelve thirty. For one,’ Becker added.

  ‘One what?’

  ‘O’clock. That’s when they’ll start serving.’

  ‘Food y’mean?’

  Becker felt he’d done his best.

  ‘Think about it, Bert.’

  Bert Henschke looked around, twisting his neck, using a hand to rub it, screw it, loosen it. He had a problem there. Needed to get treatment. But he never would.

  ‘Might,’ Bert said. ‘Then I mightn’t.’

  Becker walked back, thinking about Bert. He was a bastard, but he was a regular sort of bastard. The kind you could understand. More or less human being. Full of bitterness and deprivation and being treated like dirt most of his life. But a brave man. He’d been brave in New Guinea. They should have given him a medal. Maybe they did, but Bert would have been too proud to wear it or even mention it. Before he reached his house, he received a phone call. It was Chook.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Want to hear some news?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She couldn’t raise bail, so she’s in custody until her trial comes up.’

  ‘Addie? When is it l
ikely to be?’

  ‘Six months at least, maybe nine.’

  ‘And the kids?’

  ‘They are your responsibility, unless—’

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘You can prove they’re not yours.’

  ‘How am I going to do that?’

  ‘DNA, mate, DNA. Not sure I can get private job like that through our system, though.’

  ‘I know someone in Canberra,’ Becker said.

  ‘Yeah?’

  He felt rotten. He didn’t want the results to show Adeline had been a liar from the start. But the whole family was, he knew. Her father had done time for opening safes without permission of the owners. He’d been a locksmith. Her mother had been running a charity for homeless girls. But the girls had never got anything. Charity, they say, begins at home.

  ‘Ah, God, Chook, you shouldn’t have planted that stuff on her. That’s criminal.’

  ‘I didn’t plant any stuff on her.’

  ‘Your friend at the airport?’

  ‘That was Amos, a friend of Ray’s. She already had it.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Yeah? Well, Amos noticed a small dog sniffing her bag, when she came in. When she’d checked in her luggage, he thought he’d have a peep. She had a big parcel of it, wrapped in plastic. Good quality weed.’

  ‘Oh, God, no.’

  ‘Amos asked me what to do about it. I said leave it there. Then I rang someone at Sydney airport.’

  ‘How the hell would she get a parcel of weed?’

  ‘She was at the races yesterday.’

  ‘You mean she could have picked it up there?’

  ‘Racing is not all about racing.’

  ‘How much would it have been worth?’

  ‘Amos thought, at a rough guess, ten grand wholesale.

  ‘Ten grand? Where would she get that?’

  ‘You gave her your credit card number.’

  ‘I gave it to the manager at the motel.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Oh, shit.’

  Chook was laughing.

  ‘Have you looked at your bank account lately?’