He Called Me Son (The Blountmere Street Series Book 1)

by Barbara Arnold

  For a moment neither of us spoke. Gaylene still had her eyes shut. Finally she said, ‘I didn’t know poetry could be so beautiful. Who wrote it?’

  ‘William Wordsworth.’

  I studied the side of her face. Her skin was smooth and without any blemishes and I wondered if Fergus’s Marion had been as lovely.

  ‘If you want, we can read some poetry this evening. We can meet at the river by the flat rock. Do you know it?’ She asked.

  I nodded. Sometimes when I could get away without Downston or the others seeing me, I would go there to be alone with my memories. It was more peaceful than the pigsty and much more beautiful.

  ‘About seven, before it gets dark,’ Gaylene suggested.

  ‘Your parents wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘I can slip out my bedroom window. They’ll think I’m working on my school holiday project.’

  ‘I don’t want you to get into trouble.’

  ‘It’ll be all right. I’ll be back and asleep by the time Mum pops her head round the door before she goes to bed.’

  She stood and offered her hand to pull me up. ‘Come on, we’ve got to go.’

  The evening breeze brushed my body as I shook the water from my face, and begun rubbing under my arms with my washing rag.

  ‘At this rate, you’ll wash yourself away.’ Joe looked at me, puzzled. ‘Why do you want to wash after dinner as well as in the morning? It’s not natural. Once a day’s too much if you ask me.’

  He hit his forehead dramatically with the heel of his hand. ‘I’ve got it! You’re going to meet that Gay Whatsername. I should’ve twigged.’

  I wished Joe would leave me alone.

  ‘Playing with fire, that’s what you’re doing. The Boss’ll murder you if he finds out.’

  ‘He’s not going to.’ Somewhere in my stomach fear mingled with excitement.

  ‘Where are the two of you going?’

  ‘To the river. Anyway, I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss.’

  ‘I’m not making a fuss. I don’t want to see you cut up in little pieces and fed to the pigs.’

  ‘I told you that’s not going to happen.’ I felt round my chin.

  ‘You’re not going to shave are you? You’ve only got two whiskers.’ Joe handed me my shirt. ‘All this for a bit of hanky panky.’

  ‘It’s nothing like that. All we’re going to do is read poetry. There’s nothing wrong with that, is there?’

  I didn’t like Joe using those words about Gaylene. It demeaned her, though I wasn’t sure what hanky panky was. I thought it was something in addition to sex, although I wasn’t that certain about sex. When the Gang saw people kissing in a picture at Saturday Picture Club, we jeered and cat-called. We thought kissing was soppy. If it was soppy, why did I dream about kissing Gaylene?

  ‘Nothing wrong with what, boy?’ Murray asked, emerging from our quarters on his way to the long drop, already unbuttoning his fly.

  ‘He’s going to meet that Gay Whatsername tonight at the river?’

  ‘Big mouth!’

  Murray whistled through his teeth and said, ‘My word.’

  ‘I’ve told him the Boss’ll kill him if he finds out.’

  ‘Too right he will.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to tell him not to trust a woman?’ Joe called after Murray.

  ‘It’s his own business.’ Murray disappeared inside the dunny, shouting back, ‘You can borrow my new socks, boy.’

  Shadows engulfed the gorge, through which the river wound - a grey-blue thread, before it ran its course along a widening shingle bed. From there it forged its way on into a further canyon. A lonely birdsong soared upwards while insects in black clusters hovered in the pastel haze of evening.

  Gaylene was already there when I arrived, low down by the river, sitting on a rock the shape of an ironing board.

  ‘I thought you might not have been able to find me,’ she smiled as I approached. Against the steep outcrop, she appeared smaller.

  I clambered across the rock and sat beside her. ‘Did you have any trouble getting here?’

  ‘No. My bedroom’s round the back of the house. At this time in the evening, Mum and Dad are always at the front so it was easy to slip away. What about you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s lovely here in the evening.’

  ‘Yes.’ I sought for something to say but nothing came. We gazed at the river. All at once I became aware of the space between us filled with uncertainty and widened by a thousand unasked and unanswered questions.

  ‘Are you going to read some poetry?’ Gaylene asked at last. It was a relief she had spoken. This time I took my poetry book from my pocket. I opened it to a page I had marked with a bookmark made from the long-drop newspaper. ‘I’ll read another verse from the poem I read you yesterday by Wordsworth.’ My voice cracked involuntarily and rose before falling. Embarrassed, I coughed as if to clear my throat. I struggled for an even pitch.

  I saw her upon nearer view,

  A Spirit, yet a woman too!

  Her household motions light and free

  And steps of virgin liberty,

  A countenance in which did meet,

  Sweet records, promises as sweet,

  A creature not too bright or good

  For human nature’s daily food,

  For transient sorrows, simple wiles,

  Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles

  Gaylene rested her head in her hands. ‘I don’t think my father has ever loved my mother like that. What about your parents?’

  I blew my breath in front of me. ‘The only thing my Old Man ever loved was the bottle. He left home when I was a kid. I suppose my mother must have loved him once.’ I paused. ‘Perhaps they both loved each other once.’

  How could anything as beautiful as Wordsworth wrote about deteriorate into what Angela and I had witnessed? Yet love could overcome unimaginable obstacles, even survive death. I had only to listen to Fergus to know that.

  Gaylene moved closer. ‘Am I an apparition of delight?’ she whispered.

  As an answer, I took hold of her shoulders and stroked upwards to her face.

  ‘You’re beautiful.’

  Her kiss was like dandelion down brushing my lips.

  ‘You’re moping around like a lovesick animal,’ Joe observed the next day. He moved closer. ‘What I want to know is, what the two of you got up to. Did you … you know?’

  ‘I told you. We read poetry.’

  ‘Pigs might fly.’

  ‘Please yourself.’ I began to walk away from Joe. I wanted to be alone to relive the previous evening, to feel Gaylene’s lips touching mine, to recreate the tenderness.

  ‘You going to meet her again tonight?’ Joe shouted after me.

  ‘What if I am?’

  ‘You must be mad,’ he called back.

  This time I was the first to arrive, lying back on the rock, feeling its stored up heat from the day seep into me. Behind my closed eyes, a dozen Gaylenes danced in an orange swirl. When she arrived she was a manifestation of my daydream.

  We took off our shoes and walked along the river’s edge, jumping from stone to stone. We ran through the water, squealing at its chill. Then we pulled each other across deeper crevices and up steeper slopes until we found a clearing. There we laid on crackling leaves, entwined in each other’s arms. I felt the smoothness of her skin and the roundness of her breasts as the canyon grew shadowy and the birds became silent.

  The canyon was almost dark when we finally stumbled from it. Twilight had turned the grass grey as we crept hand in hand towards the homestead. We kissed one final time behind the large flax bush.

  ‘Blimey, where’ve you been?’ Joe confronted me at the door.

  Inside, Fergus was reading and Murray was tending the stove.

  ‘We began to think you’d eloped, boy,’ Murray laughed.

  I coloured.

  ‘Be taking no notice.’ Fergus looked up from his book and took a sip of his c
ocoa. ‘Would you be liking some?’

  The everydayness of the act slowed my heart a little.

  Then we heard it! The Bedford with the tailgate clanging as it tore along the rough track. It skidded on the gravel and pulled up outside with a great screeching of brakes. Fergus held his cup midair. Murray knelt unmoving in front of the stove. Joe and I clung to each other as the door was flung open. It swung back and hit the wall with a crash. Papers became dislodged from shelves and fluttered to the floor, together with the calendars. The cocoa slurped from Fergus’ mug.

  Downston flung himself into the hut. Everything about his face was aflame: eyes, skin, nose, mouth. ‘I’m going to bloody murder you.’ He advanced towards me.

  Chapter Nineteen

  We were all on our feet now.

  ‘Steady on, Boss.’ Murray approached Downston in an effort to calm him, but Downston lunged towards Joe and me. He caught hold of Joe before he realised he had the wrong one and hurled him across the room. Again, the hut quaked as if the ground beneath was in turmoil. Downston ignored Fergus’s shouts of, ‘Tis enough,’ and seized my shirt. Leaving the collar hanging, he yanked me to the door and tossed me into the truck as if he was throwing a sheep there. ‘Let’s see what a night in the bush’ll do for you!’ He rounded the vehicle, jumped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. The truck hurtled back along the track.

  Dazed and shivering, I wedged myself into a corner and massaged the flesh above my elbow. My ripped collar flapped in the air rush.

  We were on a wider track now and dust enveloped the truck. I bent over to protect myself from the piercing cold while, at the same time, trying to brace myself.

  It was difficult to know how long we’d been driving when Downston screeched the truck to a halt and ordered me out. My eyes watered, my ears stung and my feet were numb as I levered myself from the vehicle and toppled on to the ground.

  ‘Get up, damn you!’ Downston booted me in the ribs. He produced a torch, grabbed the back of my neck and shoved me forward.

  I stumbled over the uneven ground, catching my feet in the tangled undergrowth. At times, it seemed we were circling the same trees, as Downston half dragged me onwards into thick bush. Without warning, he stopped as if he didn’t trust himself to go further.

  ‘Dare to touch my girl! Dare to touch her! Stay here and don’t move a bloody inch until I drive away or I swear I’ll murder you.’

  I remained statue-like until the flicker of torchlight disappeared and I could no longer hear the brittle sound of footsteps on tinder. I thought I heard the distant sound of an engine starting up. Only then did I slither down a tree trunk, relieved to be rid of Downston.

  I rubbed my arm, probing it gently. It was lumpy and swollen. My legs were scratched and I felt my own blood warm on my fingers. All round me there seemed to be strange forest noises. I shivered as the dankness seeped into me and I wrapped my arms around myself for comfort.

  I peered into the darkness trying to accustom my eyes to it. Slivers of moonlight penetrated the canopy above me. Shadows loomed, advancing phantom shapes. From somewhere within them came an eerie screech.

  I couldn’t stay here all night. I must get back to the road. I couldn’t think beyond that. The road – any road – would be better than this place. I struggled to get up but my legs buckled. I sank back against the tree experiencing a rotating feeling in my head. I closed my eyes and waited for the dizziness to pass. ‘Must find the road,’ I whispered, afraid some hidden presence might hear me.

  Weariness settled on me like a blanket. ‘Must find the road.’ I forced my eyes open. I would try to get up again in a moment. I extended my legs. Despite my efforts to keep awake, I fell into a sleep that wasn’t a sleep at all, but more a lack of consciousness, full of dark images. Mum and Angela appeared and beckoned. Joe, Murray and Fergus tramped through the bush and on into oblivion. I was being driven deeper and deeper until I reached its vortex, from which I couldn’t escape.

  It was still dark when I came to myself. I was aware of the numbness in my hands and feet and the pain in my arm. Gradually, I recalled the events that had led to me being there. I swallowed down my fear and levered myself back up against the tree trunk. I wiggled my fingers to induce life back into them.

  Like a theatre curtain being imperceptibly raised, the dimmest of lights silhouetted everything around me. Feeling began returning to my fingers and toes. I pulled off my shoes and socks and massaged my feet, before placing one foot over the other and burying them into a pile of dry leaves for warmth. I ripped off my loose collar, spat on it, and dabbed at the wound on my arm and at my scratched legs before discarding it. I folded my socks and placed them inside my shoes. Murray would have something to say if I didn’t look after them.

  A solitary bird’s first call of the day encouraged me to my feet. I clutched the tree trunk for support. My legs trembled but held as I studied my surroundings through the pinpricks of light that infiltrated the forest.

  With effort I raised one arm, then the other. After that, I slid my feet apart and then together, in a feeble attempt to ape the exercises we used to do in the playground in Blountmere Street School. The sound of my shuffling on the forest floor seemed louder and more disturbing than jumping up and down on the tarmac of a London school playground. The forest was hallowed. Nothing other than its own sounds were meant to be heard.

  A choir of birds joined the solo. Everywhere resounded to their song. Beyond them another chorus swelled and beyond them another. I marvelled at their ability to sing in this impenetrable jungle but, then, if they wanted, they could fly above the trees and escape. The thought disturbed me. I needed to find the road. But after the road, what? Where could I go? Downston wouldn’t allow me back and I’d be lost anywhere away from the farm. I cast the thought away. I had to concentrate on finding my way out of this place to the road. When I got to the road, I’d decide what to do.

  I brushed my feet clean before I replaced Murray’s socks and put on my shoes. Then I set off in the direction in which I thought Downston had left. It shouldn’t be difficult or he would never have brought me here for fear of getting lost himself.

  The advent of morning transformed the bush from menace to safe tranquility, like the coming of daylight did to the bombsite. The Gang could have made a marvellous camp here. No one would have found us. No one would have found us! If I didn’t find my way out, no one would find me! I pushed the thought away and trudged on.

  I recalled Murray saying that shepherds were able to cover long distances because they walked to a steady rhythm: consistent, not fast or slow as the mood and energy took them. One - breathe, two – breathe, three – breathe.

  I began reciting poetry, measuring my steps to it. When I ran out of poems I knew, I started again.

  Reciting poetry reminded me of Gaylene. I wondered what had happened to her. Had the Boss punished her, too? Perhaps he had taken her somewhere and left her like he had me. He might even have beaten her. I conjured a picture of the two of us together by the river and stroked my arm fleetingly, as if I was touching her. Was it only last night we had been together?

  Resolutely, I pushed on brushing against black velvet tree trunks. A fungus caused the velvety parts, Gaylene had told me on our ascent up the side of the gorge. She said the trunks reminded her of long black gloves that ladies sometimes wore to balls. It was the sort of thing Paula would have said. I hadn’t thought about Paula or Blountmere Street much recently. My friendship with Gaylene had driven them away. I allowed myself a wry inner smile. What would they say in Blountmere Street if they could see me now, deep in the bush.

  The birdsong chorus continued. First, one bird took the lead, then another. Their song sounded as clear as church bells on frosty air.

  Ahead, a patch of light widened to reveal a clump of cabbage trees. Joe said it was a stupid name for a tree that didn’t grow cabbages. It was like calling a tree an apple tree when it didn’t grow apples. That’s what Joe said.

&nbs
p; I couldn’t be far from the road now.

  Even with trees crammed one against another, forming a matted roof above me, I could feel it becoming hotter. I didn’t know how long I had been walking, but it had taken much longer than Downston took last night.

  I hadn’t eaten since the Missus’s boil-up the night before and hunger gnawed at me. My feet were becoming sore. Worse, my tongue felt pitted.

  I found a sturdy tree root and squatted on it. Where was the road?

  I wondered what the others were doing. I ached for the security of our quarters.

  ‘Got to get going.’ I hoisted myself to my feet. If there was a landmark, like the river, something to point me in the right direction, I could follow it, but discovering the river seemed an impossible dream.

  I continued to claw my way through thick bush as the terrain rose steadily. Using both my hands to help me keep my balance, I scrambled upwards. Prickly young beeches, manuka bushes and bush lawyer raked me. My breathing came in painful sobs. My legs shook from exertion. I felt weaker than I could ever remember.

  I was afraid that if I stopped, I might topple backwards. I pressed on, forcing my legs to move. I dared not look up for fear of losing my balance and I dreaded to let my gaze wander downwards. When I thought I was incapable of taking another step, the ground flattened into a ledge. It was wide enough to allow me to bend over and clutch my knees. My chest heaved and fell like bellows as my lungs sucked in air. The muscles in my legs twitched and complained. My fingers stung. My tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth.

  I didn’t know how long it took for my breathing to become steady. Time had no meaning here.

  At last, I straightened and looked around. Trees hemmed me in like prison walls. Murray once told us about someone, an American student Murray seemed to remember, who had gone into the bush for an afternoon stroll. They found his skeleton draped with the remains of his clothes two years later. That’s what happened to fools who knew nothing about the bush, Murray had said.