Bridge of Triangles

by John Muk Muk Burke

  “You’ll be better off here too,” said Ted, “as long as you behave yourselves. Father’s gone to a lot of trouble to get you boys back. Hope youse appreciate it. You’re lucky boys I reckon.”

  “Got company, eh?” Jack jerked his thumb at the fly-screened door.

  “Mum and Dad’s been here about an hour,” said Vera.

  Chris wondered now if it was his grandfather’s car. Vera had said mum and dad—perhaps her parents were here.

  “So are youse comin’ in or what?” continued Vera.

  The group moved inside. Grandfather Leeton sat massively on a chrome chair. He seemed to dwell in a place far off. He stared ahead with his eyes unblinking. He was in the room. He was not in the room. His wife, in soft pink and white clothes was in a deep red sofa. A flowered hat was placed on the cushion next to her. As the boys came into the room she patted the hat more firmly over the vacant seat. The centre of the floor was occupied by a wooden playpen in which a small child sat shaking a toy. Another child was in a high chair.

  The table was set with good looking china and there were cakes and biscuits on glass plates.

  “I can’t get up with these legs so come and kiss your mother,” announced old lady Leeton to Jack. He bent over his mother and kissed her forehead.

  Quite suddenly the old man stirred. His eyes came to life. “So you’re out for a bit of a run are you?” was the greeting of his father. “You’ve got the boys with you.” His bald head nodded in their direction and the heavy chain of his watch swayed. The room was suddenly silent.

  Chris and Keith moved closer together, hovering near the door. what was wrong, Chris wondered. Even as he wondered the old man seemed to retreat back into himself. His eyes staring once more into the space of the room and beyond.

  “Yeh, that’s right,” replied Jack.

  There was a long silence.

  Vera coughed. “Well, what about a cuppa—how’s your’s Mum?”

  The old lady looked at her daughter-in-law and said, “No thank you, but if you’re giving Jack a cup then you’ll need to add some hot water—mine was far too strong—and not quite hot enough.”

  Vera’s face flushed and she glanced at Ted. Ted was staring at his boots.

  “Well I don’t suppose you were christened while you were away from your father—so that’s the next thing to be done. To think, boys your age not christened, and Leetons too.” The old lady angrily picked cake crumbs off her lap while speaking.

  Again the old man seemed to arrive back in the room. He cleared his throat, “What do you expect? Nothing but nonsense—nonsense from the start.” Then silence.

  Keith moved over and tickled the baby under the chin.

  “And don’t start that baby off again. Its only just settled down. Get away from it—we don’t want any of that screaming noise again.” The old lady was looking at Vera as she spoke.

  Vera averted her gaze and said, “Here, you boys—would you like a glass of cordial to drink in the garden?”

  Vera made the boys a drink and said, “Have some cake if you like.”

  “Only one piece now, we’re civilized aren’t we?” The boys’ grandmother said with a shake of one bent finger.

  Chris and Keith moved out into the backyard. Vera slipped them a handful of biscuits as they passed through the kitchen. She winked.

  Out in the yard the brothers found a dog. Their spirits rose as they fed the dog some biscuit.

  “What’s christen mean?” asked Keith.

  “It’s something they do in the church. Put salt on ya tongue I think—or in ya ear. And they tip water on ya head too.”

  “What for?”

  “Dunno.”

  “flint doin’ it to me.”

  “Me neither.” But Chris pictured his grandmother’s face and didn’t really believe himself.

  Contact with Jack’s various family members was rare. Sometimes Ted would drop in at Waterbag Road with a bottle or two of beer and his wind-up gramophone. The men would relax and Ted would play “Peg Leg Jack the Sailor” over and over until he sobered up. And then the boys would seem to stop their laughing. Vera was never with him. Sometimes Jack would take the boys into town on Saturday mornings and after he’d bought his chicken feed and kerosene and other essentials, they might call into old lady Leeton’s where she would give them a cup of tea and make the boys eat their half a rock cake in the backyard. Outside the old man would be sitting on a cane chair under the apple tree staring at nothing. He would stir every so often and mutter what sounded like, “Yes, yes, yes.” Vacant staring. Then, “No, oh no—oh no.” The cane chair uttered small creaking sounds. Its legs pushed a little into the black earth under the lawn.

  It was after a Saturday morning trip to town that old Mrs Leeton announced that she’d arranged with the vicar for the christening to take place.

  “He said he’d do them on a Wednesday afternoon—just the two of them. They won’t have to go to church as such,” the old lady said. She had in fact insisted on this procedure. She was glad the boys lived with Jack right out at Waterbag Road and that they were not generally known in town. She was so ashamed and might not have insisted on a christening at all if she did not believe that despite certain unfortunate events in a past now best forgotten, all humans should be christened—and Jack was their father so they were human beings weren’t they?

  “Are you sure about this christening business? I haven’t been near a church for years,” Jack said to his mother.

  “That’s got nothing to do with it. Of course they must be done. It’s all arranged. Should have been done years ago, like any decent Christian folk. Every Leeton has been christened. Now no more nonsense.”

  “All nonsense—stuff and nonsense,” muttered the old man, but it was not clear just what he meant. The old lady glared at her husband. He sat and stared.

  Jack supposed it couldn’t hurt the boys and once it was done it was done.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve got ties for the boys—you can borrow a couple of your father’s. Now you boys be careful with these ties. Your grandfather’s had them for years but they’re still quite as good as new.”

  Old lady Leeton’s planned Wednesday dawned and became another point from which so many events would stem. Chris would look back to this point. Or choose countless others as starting places to make the patterns for a life—his life. And this event, was it the same for Keith? For Jack? Old lady Leeton? No doubt they all looked back at some time and saw completely different stories.

  The boys of course had not been told before. In keeping with Jack’s manner he merely said, “Get yourself washed and put your school clothes on.” The two dark ties were tied around the boys’ necks and tucked into their pants.

  “What are these for dad?”

  “Don’t ask bloody questions. Just do as you’re told. And don’t get dirty before we leave.”

  “Where we going?”

  “To town.”

  “What for?”

  “You’ll find out. Now stop your bloody questions. Always wanting to know everything.”

  The deep red brick building rose up from the green earth importantly with its statue high up in a niche of the tower. Headstones and crosses reared up from a tangle of rosemary bushes and oleanders. It was cool and quiet inside with strange smells and colours splashed across the chalky white walls. There were dull brass memorials to townspeople from the earliest days of the invasion. The font stood near the entrance to the church on a raised platform. Both boys nervously glanced around to see where the salt might be kept. But they saw only a little pile of books, some folded cloths and a flattish spoon fashioned from a shell. No salt. The minister smiled at the group with a genuinely welcoming, friendly face. The tall man gently swept the boys under his wing-like draped arms and positioned them around the marble basin. His highly polished shoes sank quietly into the deep red carpet. He picked up a long cloth and kissed it in the centre. Keith glanced at Chris. The minister then continued raising the cloth
up so that his eyes were briefly cut off. He moved it back over his head and the reinforced cloth with its dull burnishing of gold thread was lowered and settled around his neck and shoulders. It fell in a rich swathe down his front. Chris raised his eyes towards his father and wondered if it were alright that he wasn’t wearing a tie. Jack was shuffling awkwardly. The boys stood dead still until the vicar finished the prayers. He was saying something about welcoming these children into the family of God and how those responsible had to guard them from the Devil and the sinful desires of the flesh. He then beckoned Chris closer to the font. “Name this child.”

  Chris was alarmed. Was he going to get a new name?

  “Say his name,” the minister whispered to Jack who was also mystified. Surely the kid already had a name.

  “Christopher Micky Leeton,” mumbled Jack.

  “Christopher Micky, I baptise you in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.”

  A shell of cold water was splashed onto the boy’s forehead and the sign of the cross made.

  When Chris stood back and the process was repeated for Keith, he looked down at the dark brown tie. A stain of water was spreading over the centre of the widest section of it.

  “Oh shit,” whispered Christopher Micky Leeton to himself.

  The minister’s white hand stopped momentarily in mid air. Keith’s head was bent over the basin. Jack shuffled his feet. The faintest trace of a smile crossed the minister’s face as he continued.

  “Keith Edward I baptise you in the name of...”

  The outside world hurt their eyes. Jack dug into his fob pocket and fished out some coins. “Now go and get an ice-cream and play around the park for a bit. I’ll see you back at the ute so wait there.” The boys marvelled at this aspect of getting christened and rushed down the street like pups. Then Jack did something quite out of character: he headed straight for the public bar of the Empire and downed several glasses of cold beer quickly.

  And so the boys were being to some extent remade. Although they didn’t see a lot of old Grandma Leeton, she seemed to inform the consciousness of this strange little family. Every now and then Jack would drive into town and the old lady would inspect the boys as she handed out a portion of rock cake and watery cordial (to be consumed outside). Did they have clean boots, haircuts, clean hands, only speak when spoken to and generally as she put it, mind their p’s and q’s? She gave them a little prayer book each and urged Jack to bring their frayed shirts and worn socks into town to be mended. She had a lot of correcting to do as she saw it.

  Jack never told the boys in advance of anything he would do. This was quite possibly because he rarely planned any aspects of his life. So it was another mystery that began to unfold the day Ted came and took Keith away in his car and left Chris with his father.

  Jack drove straight to Grandma Leeton’s. Chris sensed something was wrong. The house stood in the pale sunlight, its wrought iron gate and front door closed as usual. On the trellis, rose buds shivered in the chill breeze like small red hearts tightly closed. Jack pulled up in the ute and Chris felt the familiar gut wrenching resentment as his father said, “Wait here.” Chris felt the urge to run up to the screen door and charge inside announcing their arrival. Or to make it even more fun, to bang the big brass knocker and belt some life into the house. But of course, the screen door would be clipped. Jack had always maintained a distant respect for his parents and their house.

  On this winter’s day, Chris had a feeling of unease. Everything looked too normal. Why had they driven into town and why had Keith been collected by Ted? The house was silent as Jack Leeton walked up the pebbled path bordered with sad wall flowers and small white rocks.

  Jack never used the knocker. He had an unrecognised distrust of all that was fancy or frivolous. Instead he knocked on the doorframe. Only then did he call out to Chris to “Get over here.” The boy joined his father at the shut door and he felt the cold from the concrete veranda creeping up through his feet. Grandma Leeton could be heard muttering her way down the funereal hall past the life-size plaster dog called “Man’s Best Friend”. Her usual greeting, even on warm sunny days was, “You haven’t got mud on your boots have you?” She spoke to the air but it was meant for children.

  The old lady’s wedding ring was in the form of a buckled up belt and Chris could see it now as her fingers unclipped the screen door. Her squat figure blocked most of the the gloomy interior from view and, with no mention of mud, she said in a slate-grey voice, “He’s not going.”

  Chris sensed a movement in his stomach as he felt with even more certainty that something major was up.

  “He’s not going.”

  Who was not going where?

  Jack’s reply, disjointed as ever was, “Aren’t you going to open the door?”

  “Alright, don’t fuss. I don’t know what to do and I don’t care. I wish Peter were here. He has to go but he says he won’t so I don’t know. I suppose I’d better make you a cup of tea.”

  The old lady led the visitors through the hall where all the side rooms were shut off. She shuffled into the velvet dining room. “You sit here and don’t go getting mud everywhere.”

  Chris looked at his boots which were clean He dared to mumble something vaguely defensive.

  “Don’t give your grandmother cheek,” roared Jack.

  Grandma Leeton began to bang the tea things about in the kitchen. She was treating the china as though it were responsible for all her worries. This day the crockery came in for a particularly heavy hand as the tea and rock cakes were brought into the dining room.

  “I can’t say too much you know—walls have ears and tongues wag. Go outside with that cake and don’t go getting dirty. Your father and I want to have a grown-up talk.”

  After quite a time the old lady came out and emptied tea leaves on the hydrangeas. Chris took this as a signal for his return. He waited a bit and then went back inside. He saw his grandmother standing, like an old pillow, her wrinkled hands twisting the cloth of her apron as she sniffed. His grandfather stood immovable as a stone by the sideboard. He had his hat on. Jack sat drinking tea and breaking bits of rock cake and putting them into his mouth slowly and deliberately

  The old man suddenly said, “I’m not going into a bloody mental home.” He looked ridiculous in his dark woollen suit, watch chain looped over his waistcoat, hat just plonked on and his feet in fur lined slippers which zipped up the centre. “I’m not bloody mad.”

  A small suitcase with a tartan rug draped over it stood by him. He looked at no one as he whispered again. “I’m not mad.”

  The old lady started sniffing quite loudly. The old man said, “I won’t go to Sydney. Peter can wait.”

  The big clock prepared to strike by cranking itself up and whirling like something would break inside its dark wooden box.

  “There, it’s eleven o’clock and you haven’t gone. Are you leaving or am I going to ring Peter?”

  Chris looked at his grandfather. His face was set, his jowls hung heavily down the sides of his womanly smooth face, pulling his mouth into an eternally sad droop. His shoulders sagged and his hands hung big and fleshy, suggesting that they had not moved anything in the world for years and years. All his body sagged. The old man looked now at his wife of many years. His eyes turned to Jack. Slowly he took in the room where this grandson, Jack’s boy was it? sat with his legs dangling. The polished wooden case of the clock emitted its brittle tick ticking. The beige blind with its tasselled fringe was almost fully lowered behind the lace curtains. Dark lionclaw feet of the heavy chairs pressed into the over-patterened woollen carpet. Quite suddenly the old man’s smooth white hand stretched out and clutched the suitcase like a lifeline. He gave a friendly looking pat to its worn polished leather and said, “Alright then, Sydney.”

  Old lady Leeton’s hands again began to twist the fabric of her apron. Her movements were jerked and fluttering. Tiny little bluebells worked onto the cloth were being squashed.

 
“Jack, you take these things and put them in the back. Leave the rug in the front—he’ll need that for his knees—put that over your knees in the car. And keep this up the right way, it’s got the thermos in it. And oh, yes, there are some rock cakes in this cloth and if you need more hot water ... oh I don’t know, I don’t know. Just go will you. I wish Peter were here.”

  The old lady hobbled down the passage which smelt of polish and brown velvet and darkness. She started to cry again.

  It was then that Chris realised that his grandfather would not be coming back from Sydney. He thought he saw and partly understood the utter tragedy of this situation. Chris then saw this family—his family weren’t they? as strangers one to another, standing apart like boulders on a high hill, each one silent in its own space rising from still grey earth. And was he too as a stone?

  Outside, the ute was parked under the winter-bare branches of the plane trees which lined the quiet solid street. His grandparents didn’t even kiss or say goodbye. The old lady merely stood there, softly crying, her bent old hands busy at the cloth of her apron. A solitary willy wagtail flitted about the garden. The old man, her husband, plonked himself into the centre of the leather seat and waited to be delivered to he cared not where. His wife didn’t see the great wet tears that fell down his marbled cheeks and he didn’t brush them away. Neither did she see the curiously sad little smile.

  As the ute gathered speed the old lady shuffled back up the stone lined pathway then checked to make sure she did not have any mud on her slippered feet.

  The trip to Sydney was punctuated with frequent stops for the old man to relieve himself onto the roadside stones which grittily moved beneath his slippers. Often it took a great effort for Jack to convince him to get back into the ute. They drank the tea from the thermos and ate the sandwiches and rock cakes old lady Leeton had wrapped in a tea towel. Chris glanced frequently at his grandfather and wondered what was wrong with him. He’d said he was not mad and this phrase kept going through his head. I’m not mad, not mad, not mad. The boy thought, but you are—and you want to be because you are escaping. He wondered about his father’s family—this family which somehow seemed so unable to tell each other of their love in any form other than to gleam the lino, mend the shirt collars, put three decent meals on the table every day. And the children who were taught to reciprocate these coded love messages. Love me—don’t spill anything. Love me—don’t eat too much. Love me—don’t speak unless spoken to. Love me—don’t laugh. Love me—take care not to do anything wrong. Love me—be perfect even as your Father who is in heaven is perfect.