by Robert Gott
‘Didn’t mean to offend,’ he said. ‘I was just saying. Do us a favour and don’t tell the wife I mentioned your knockers.’ He laughed. ‘She might get jealous.’
She said nothing to Rose — partly because she liked her, and partly because she felt sorry for her having to crawl into bed each night beside that hairy-shouldered gnome. Was she also worried that Rose might believe that she’d encouraged John to speak to her like that? Her mother had warned her to be careful around Catholics. They knew no restraint. Johanna hadn’t understood what she’d meant by this. As if it cleared the matter up, Mrs Scotney had said, ‘Well, you only have to look in their churches and at the number of children they have.’ What one had to do with the other wasn’t enlarged upon, but John Abbot’s obscenity confirmed for Johanna what her mother had hinted at.
Somehow it didn’t seem odd to Johanna that she felt comfortable in Rose Abbot’s presence. Although Johanna couldn’t understand how she could bear to be physically intimate with her husband, she saw no evidence in Rose’s gaze of the revulsion that she, Johanna, felt when looking at John Abbot. Catholics, of course, never divorced, so perhaps Rose was making the best of a bad situation. But, no; there was nothing of the martyr about Rose. The only conclusion that Johanna could reasonably come to was that, inexplicably, Rose loved her husband. It was this, really, that prevented her from voicing any complaint about him. Johanna couldn’t put Rose in the position of having to take sides. Besides, Rose was the only woman, apart from her mother, in whom she could confide, and she rarely confided in her mother. Not that she didn’t get on with her mother. It was just that she didn’t want her interfering in her budding romance.
The boy would soon be 18, but he was mature for his age — he could, he’d told her, grow a moustache if he chose to. His name was Timothy Harrison. He was tall, and not yet settled into the long arms and legs that seemed to have grown overnight. He knew nothing about fish or fishing. His father, whose health had been compromised by mustard gas in the first war, was an invalid. Fortunately, his mother’s people had money, so the Harrison family — his older brother was somewhere in Italy, fighting — was able to live comfortably in town. Timothy planned to join up the minute he turned 18.
Johanna had sketched all this information for Rose during their first talk about Timothy. She’d withheld a couple of things, though. Chief among these was that Timothy was an Anglican. She didn’t think Rose would really care — although the crucifix in the living room and the framed picture of Our Lady of Perpetual Succour (Rose had identified it for her) in the kitchen silenced any talk of religion, however inconsequential. Timothy’s religious affiliation was one of the reasons she’d kept him a secret from her mother. At least he was a Protestant, but he wasn’t Presbyterian, and the Anglicans were pale imitations of the Catholics, according to Mrs Scotney. They didn’t go in for popery, though, and their churches weren’t quite so gaudy and pagan. The Harrisons were respectable people, so Johanna was confident that she could talk her mother round about Timothy. This wouldn’t have been possible if the Harrisons had been Catholic. Nothing would induce Mrs Scotney to welcome a papist into her home. She tolerated them in shops and had a nodding acquaintance with one or two of them when she passed them in Sackville Street. After all, she was fond of saying, she wasn’t an intolerant woman. She hoped she had enough Christian charity in her to disguise her contempt. She wasn’t in the business of hurting people’s feelings.
The sound of Matthew’s bicycle annoyed both Rose and Johanna. This morning time together had become the favourite part of the day for each of them. Rose enjoyed being Johanna’s confidante. She’d never been in such a position before, having found female company of little interest while she was growing up. Now, as a married woman who’d been inducted into the mysteries and miseries of sex, she felt wise, and able to offer Johanna counsel. Not that sex was ever overtly discussed. Timothy Harrison had made no physical overtures, beyond holding Johanna’s hand at the pictures.
‘How would you feel if he kissed you?’ Rose asked. Johanna was about to reply when Matthew Todd’s arrival brought the conversation to an end.
He entered the house without knocking — a habit he had that set Rose’s nerves on edge. It wasn’t just that it was rude, which it was; it was the proprietorial air he brought with him, as if the Abbot house somehow belonged to him.
‘Morning,’ he said. ‘A cup of tea seems essential. Would you mind, Johanna?’
‘I’ll make it,’ Rose said. ‘Johanna’s got more important things to do than make you cups of tea.’
Matthew, who hadn’t taken his eyes off Johanna since entering the kitchen, decided she was much more like Ann Baxter than Deanna Durbin, and he was relieved. Deanna Durbin was too impossibly prim and sweet to excite him. Ann Baxter had some spark. Johanna put the tea cup she’d been drinking from in the sink.
‘Good day, Mr Todd,’ she said as she moved past him. Despite being only a few years older than Johanna, Matthew had never suggested that she call him by his first name. It pleased him to be called ‘Mr Todd’. When Johanna had left, Rose said, ‘You have a fiancée, Matthew.’
‘And what exactly is that supposed to mean?’
‘It means I’ve seen the way you look at her.’
Matthew didn’t bother denying it. Instead he said, ‘You should do something with your hair. You look like a frump.’
‘It’s so lovely when you visit, Matthew.’
He laughed. ‘Don’t take it personally, Rosie. I’m just trying to be helpful.’
‘You can be helpful by staying away from Johanna. She’s spoken for, and so are you.’
‘Is she? Who’s the lucky bloke?’
‘None of your business.’
‘A Port Fairy boy? Or a farming yokel? Not a fisherman, surely? They stink.’
‘They’re your bread and butter. Do they know what you really think of them?’
‘I didn’t say I didn’t like them. I just said they stink, which they do. Get up close to one of them sometime. How’s that cup of tea coming along?’
Rose was sorely tempted to tell her brother to make it himself, but she thought that the longer she kept him in the kitchen the less likely he was to pursue Johanna into the yard.
‘How’s Aunt Aggie?’ she asked.
‘She’s fine. You should visit her more often.’
‘I send her eggs and vegetables. She thinks I’ve let the Todd family down. I married beneath myself, apparently. I know that’s what she thinks, Matthew.’
He shrugged as if this was, after all, an indisputable fact.
‘Still, you should visit her. Family is important.’
‘That includes Uncle Selwyn, does it?’
‘Don’t call him “Uncle Selwyn”. It makes him sound normal.’
‘He is family.’
Matthew looked at his sister, and marvelled yet again at her indifference to her looks. An absence of vanity in someone with her face was little short of perverse, he thought.
‘Perhaps you’d like to take over looking after him. Maybe he could be housed here. Aunt Aggie would be glad to see the back of him. You could put him in one of your sheds. That’d keep him off the main street, too.’
‘He needs to be somewhere familiar. He’d wander off here, and I can’t keep an eye on him. Besides, I don’t want him here. He scares me. I hated it when he was in our house in Melbourne. That laugh of his gives me the creeps.’
‘He didn’t ever fiddle with you, did he?’
‘No, Matthew, he didn’t. You know when Aunt Aggie gets too old to look after him, it’d make sense for you and Dorothy to take over.’
Matthew snorted.
‘Well, it’s you who’s been bleating about family, not me. And you’ll be living in town. Aunt Aggie will leave the house to you, I imagine.’
‘You think inheriting
the house means inheriting Selwyn? He’s not really a chattel, is he? He’s more of a pointless, dumb animal. I’ll tell you this; if Aunt Aggie dies, I will not be looking after that great lump of a moron. He can starve to death, for all I care.’
Rose put a cup of tea down in front of him. She considered his face. He was a handsome man, if sisters could ever allow that their brothers looked handsome, but there was something under the skin that made him look cruel, or maybe just calculating. Whichever it was, Rose thought, it made him unattractive.
‘Milk?’ he asked.
‘There’s plenty of that, but there’s no sugar.’
As she said this, John Abbot came into the kitchen. He brought with him a cattle smell of milk, manure, and piss, which did little to mask the smell of his sweat. Matthew’s nose wrinkled in distaste — an action that John Abbot noticed. He said nothing, but pulled a chair as close to Matthew as he could and sat on it. Matthew drew away and stood up.
‘Christ,’ he said. ‘You smell like you’ve just crawled out of a cow’s arse.’
‘It’s called working for a living. If you don’t like the smell, stop coming here. Go and join the bloody army. Make yourself useful.’
Abbot had long ago dropped the social grace of engaging in initial pleasantries with his brother-in-law. Whenever they met, they simply resumed their hostilities from the previous meeting.
‘I think I’ll go for a walk,’ Matthew said, and managed to convey the sense that he was being inconvenienced.
‘Make yourself useful and help Johanna sluice out the milking shed — unless you’re worried about getting your precious shoes dirty.’
Rose shot her husband a look, incredulous that he’d failed to notice Matthew’s interest in Johanna. She moved to open the kitchen door for Matthew, and as she did so she said quietly, ‘Stay out of the milking shed, Matthew.’
‘Don’t worry, Rose, I’ve got no intention of ending up smelling like your husband.’
JOHANNA DIDN’T MIND cleaning out the milking shed. More often than not, John Abbot left most of the work to her. He cleaned the equipment, but mopping up the splashed milk and shovelling the cow shit had become one of her daily chores. At least she was alone, and didn’t have to endure his looks. This time, she heard a small noise and turned around. Matthew Todd was standing there, just inside the door of the shed, watching her.
‘Mr Todd.’
He didn’t look away or show the slightest embarrassment. It was she who was embarrassed. She was glad to be wearing the grubby bandana that tidied her hair away from her face, and the shapeless overalls that she’d pulled on after leaving the kitchen.
‘What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?’
She couldn’t think of a witty rejoinder, so she said, ‘Well, you know, the war and that.’
Christ, Matthew thought. She’s pretty, but she’s pretty dumb. That was all right. Smart women were trouble.
‘What do you know about the war? How are we going, do you think?’
‘I don’t read the papers much. I see it at the pictures, in the newsreels.’
‘You think that’s the truth of it?’
‘You think we’re being lied to?’
‘What would you do if the Japs came?’
‘What would you do if the Japs came?’
Matthew reassessed Johanna. Perhaps she wasn’t so dumb after all. He didn’t like being criticised by a girl holding a shovel load of cow dung. He was tempted to put her in her place, but smiled at her instead. Emboldened by his anger, he said, ‘Who’s the lucky bloke who gets to see what’s under the overalls?’
Johanna turned away from him and went back to her work.
‘Oh, don’t be like that. I meant no harm. I just meant that whoever the bloke is, he’s a lucky bastard.’
Johanna’s face reddened. She said nothing because she was both embarrassed and afraid. Matthew took a step into the shed, and, ignoring the claggy ground, he came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. His hands found the opening in her overalls, and he forced his fingers behind the cloth and onto her skin. She was paralysed with fear. He cupped her breasts and tried to slip one hand lower. She pulled away and drew the front of her overalls together. She was shaking, and Matthew could see that she was about to cry out. He placed one hand over her mouth and breathed hotly into her ear.
‘Come on. Don’t be like that. Don’t play hard to get. I’ve seen the way you look at me.’
With his free hand, he grabbed her wrist and pulled her palm to the front of his trousers.
‘See. That’s what’s you’ve done to me. You can’t …’
The sound of the kitchen door opening made Matthew release her. He pointed a finger at her. ‘You say anything, and you’re fucking finished. I can make sure your stinking father never sells another fish. We have unfinished business. You can’t go around getting a man hard and leaving him with it.’
He walked back to the entrance of the shed and called sunnily, for the benefit of John Abbot, who’d left the kitchen, ‘Nice to see you, Johanna. See you again soon.’ Abbot paid no attention to him, and wandered off to check his fences.
Matthew returned to the kitchen, and found it empty. He checked the pantry, helped himself to a few items, and walked through the house to the front porch. He got on his bicycle and headed back to Port Fairy. Johanna Scotney, he thought, needed to be taken down a peg or two, and he was just the man to do it. He felt agitated. He’d organise with his Aunt Aggie to hose Selwyn down that afternoon, and he’d have his fun with that great lump of doughy pointlessness.
–7–
GEORGE STARLING HAD left the house in Brunswick with some regret. He should have dealt with Tom Mackenzie when he had the chance. What a whimpering little Nancy-boy Mackenzie was, barricading himself in the dunny and calling for a woman to rescue him. What was her name? Margaret? No. Mary? No. Maude. Yes, Maude. Probably his wife. He should’ve done it. He should’ve just pulled the dunny door off its hinges and laid into Mackenzie. He’d thought all this as he’d walked back down Sydney Road, towards his motorcycle. When he reached it, he rode it back to Joe Sable’s flat. It seemed a shame not to leave Sable a reminder of who he was dealing with. He broke into the flat — the lock gave way with surprising ease, and with very little noise. He turned on the lights. The place was tidy, and the air carried the faint smell of some sort of cologne. That’d be right. He’d picked Sable right away as soft. He looked around, opening cupboards and drawers. He’d been here once before, of course, but only for a matter of seconds — long enough to knock Sable out. He and Ptolemy Jones had carried Sable downstairs to a car, which they’d driven to a house in Belgrave. That was the night Jones had died.
Starling stood in the bedroom. The smell of cologne was strongest here, and it infuriated him to think of Sable resting his perfumed Jew head on those pillows while Jones was dead. He went to the kitchen, picked up a sharp knife, returned to the bedroom, and slashed the pillows so that feathers floated everywhere. Then he stripped back the sheets and hacked at the mattress, slashing with such force that the blade snapped. He was breathing heavily, but his need to hurt Sable was nowhere near sated. He didn’t want to make a noise. There were three other flats in this block, and he didn’t want to wake their occupants.
On a table in the living room there was a thick folder. He picked it up and flicked through it. All he could see were newspaper clippings: ‘Massacre in Forest’ read one headline. He closed the folder and took it with him, along with Joe’s ration book, down the stairs to where he had parked the motorcycle. He grabbed one of the spare cans of petrol and went back upstairs. He wasn’t going to waste any — a cupful would do. He splashed some on the ripped mattress in the bedroom, and a small amount on the armchair in the living room. He took a box of matches from the kitchen, struck a match, dropped it on the mattress, struck
another, and dropped it onto the chair. He opened a window, waited to see that the flames were catching hold, and left. As he pulled away on the motorcycle, he could see the satisfying flickering of light in Sable’s flat. It was alight. So what if the whole block went up? They were probably all Jews.
THE LOOK ON the doorman’s face at the Windsor was sour, but it sweetened when Starling slipped him a pound note. He hated handing money over to the supercilious bastard, but he reasoned that he’d make sure he got it back somehow, with interest. And he’d wipe that smirk off the doorman’s face while he was at it.
He paid for his suite up front, in cash. Money guaranteed all sorts of things at the Windsor — discretion, privacy, and incuriosity chief among them. He registered under his own name. Since the beginning of the war, everybody had been obliged to carry identity papers, and even this fancy hotel would ask to see them. He wasn’t worried by this. The police wouldn’t be looking for him at a place like the Windsor. No questions were asked as to the absence of sir’s luggage. All they wanted to know, given the time of morning, was whether sir would like his breakfast sent to his room. Sir would like that very much, but he’d appreciate it if they’d deliver the breakfast not immediately, but in an hour’s time. Certainly, sir.
George Starling wasn’t used to luxury. He’d never craved it. Elegant places and elegant people didn’t excite envy in him — they provoked rage, and an urge to smash them up and tear them down. Now, though, he was taking perverse pleasure in standing under the hot shower in the bathroom of a suite in the Windsor Hotel. He’d heard about this place, and he’d seen it from the outside, but until this morning he’d never been ushered into the foyer by the absurdly liveried doorman.
When Starling stepped from the shower, the smell of fish had been washed from his hair and body. He raised his forearm to his nose and breathed in the odour of rose-scented soap. He looked at himself in the full-length mirror. He was lean and strong, with no hint of a slack belly. His beard shadow was dark. He’d go to a barber and pay for a close shave. He might even ape Joe Sable and ask for a splash of cologne. He put his clothes back on, and was aware of the smell of fish and sweat that clung to them. He looked around the room and thought, I’m in no hurry, and there could be no better hiding place than this. A week at the Windsor would hardly put a dent in his father’s £5,000. He’d grow a gentleman’s moustache, buy a hat and new clothes — good clothes, too. He had two extra ration books to raid, and more than enough money to silence the toffs in Henry Bucks. A good store like that would be more interested in his money than in his coupons. By this afternoon, he, George Starling, would be able to come and go from the Windsor without anybody casting him a sideways glance. As he waited for his breakfast, he began to flip through the folder he’d taken from Sable’s flat. He began to laugh. My God, he thought, they’re really doing it. Jones had been right — Herr Hitler was culling the European Jews. Well, he was doing his bit at this end. George Starling felt absurdly happy.
