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

by Barbara Arnold

  ‘By the saints be done, lad.’ Fergus’ voice came from a distance. It vied with the roaring in my ears. I fought to free myself as Murray and Fergus took hold of me.

  ‘I’m going to kill him. Let me kill him!’ But they held me firm.

  ‘You’d better leave, Boss. We’ll calm him down. The boy’s had a bad few months.’ Murray puffed it out in disjointed sentences, using all his strength to keep me from escaping their grip.

  ‘I’ll have him out. Be warned. I’ll get rid of him.’ Downston held his throat and stumbled to the door. ‘The boy’s mad. He needs to be put away.’ Downston’s voice was weak and raspy.

  Spent, I flopped on my bunk while Murray moved around hardly disturbing the air, picking the things up that had become dislodged. His hat had come off when he and Fergus had restrained me. He brushed it with his sleeve, pushed out the dents, and replaced it before disappearing outside. Joe mouthed and gestured he was going to one of his gardens. Fergus picked up a book and sat by his bed reading.

  With my eyes closed, I lay on my bunk and waited for my taut muscles to relax enough to enable me to breathe properly and for my heart to resume a regular beat. When it did, I would take my suitcase and leave.

  ‘Are you all right, lad?’ Fergus asked after a bit.

  ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’ The tension was giving way. Now, I felt as if I was wilting, like one of Joe’s flowers after battling a day in the sun.

  ‘The Boss’ll have a headache for a day or two and some marks around his throat, not to mention a few other places.’ Fergus allowed himself a half-smile.

  ‘I wished I’d killed him.’

  ‘Do you think you would have felt better if you had?’

  Fergus wasn’t going to practise his sermons on me. I wasn’t a kid anymore. I’d do what I liked. I didn’t answer. The silence stretched into minutes.

  ‘Will you promise me something?’ Fergus’s voice was as tender as it was when he felt the pathos of a poem. ‘Promise me you won’t do anything hasty?’

  No answer.

  ‘Promise me, Tony.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Promise me!’

  ‘All right, all right, I promise.’ Relief and weariness swept over me. I would go, though. When I was ready, I would leave this place for good. I didn’t need any of them.

  Since I’d attacked Downston, a stilted air had fallen on our quarters. Even Joe seemed to consider what he was about to say before he said it. I sensed a collective exhaling of breath when I answered their questions civilly. I knew the atmosphere lightened when I left the men’s quarters.

  Fergus and Murray took to whispering to each other, moving guiltily apart when I approached. I didn’t care, yet I was aware of the need to tread carefully, not with them, but with myself. I was frightened that anything: any out of place word or misinterpreted action could detonate another explosion inside myself. I had only meant to give Downston some lip. Instead, I’d ended up trying to kill him. What was packed inside me that a match of aggravation could ignite? I was glad Downston was away on business. Not that I was, or would ever again be, frightened of him. I feared myself more.

  For once, Fergus wasn’t drunk when he and Murray returned from the township the next time they went. Without saying anything, he placed a book of poetry on my bunk, but the whispering between the two of them continued.

  The next day, after we’d eaten the boil-up, Fergus coughed awkwardly and Murray lifted his hat and replaced it again.

  ‘We … er want to talk to you both.’ Murray’s voice wasn’t his ordinary everyday one.

  Joe pulled a chair up to the table. He turned it so that he could perch astride it, while I braced myself for more useless gabble.

  ‘It’s like this,’ Murray began. He pushed his hat further back on his head and started again. ‘It’s like this.’ He faltered. ‘Beggar me.’

  ‘It’s not that we want rid of the two of you,’ Fergus took over. ‘But Murray and mesself are a deal worried about you, by the saints we are.’

  I banged my elbows on the table, rested my head on my arms and gave an exaggerated sigh.

  Fergus continued, ‘The Boss has it in for you, especially you, young Tony. Who knows what he’ll do next. He can throw you off the farm any time he wants and get another couple of lads to take your place.’

  ‘All he has to do is tell the authorities the two of you buggered off and he doesn’t know where you are,’ Murray said. ‘They’ll believe him, my word they will.’

  ‘So? I’ve told you, when I’m good and ready, I’ll go.’

  ‘To be sure we know that, but Murray and I are mindful the two of you’s don’t know the parts hereabouts, and if the Boss were to get rid of you … ’

  ‘Save your breath!’ I made to go.

  ‘I’d be obliged if you’d give us the courtesy of hearing us out, Tony.’

  I flopped back into my chair, my legs extended, my eyes closed, feeling inwardly disciplined by Fergus’s unusual severity.

  ‘Our hunch is that it won’t be long before the Boss gets you by the scruff of your necks and tosses you off the place. The two of you are growing up, and it can’t be long before the authorities stop paying him.’

  ‘He could be jacking up another couple of kids right now,’ Murray added.

  Joe replied, ‘Flippin’ cheek …’, but Murray held up a hand. ‘It seemed to us we’d better think ahead a bit and get in before the Boss. We’ve made a couple of enquiries, beggar me if we haven’t. Jack and Peg Millard are looking for a couple of experienced blokes on their place aways north of the township.’ Murray coughed, cuffed his nose with his sleeve and wiped his sleeve down the side of his trousers.

  ‘To be sure the Millards are as gracious a couple as you’re likely to find, even on the blessed Emerald Isle itself. They’re more than happy to take the pair of you on, pay you a bit and give you board at the homestead. It’s a lot more than you get now.’

  ‘I don’t need your help. I’ve told you I can find something of my own. It wasn’t up to you to go to these people behind our backs.’

  ‘Let’s face it, Tony, you haven’t been too approachable of late. We appreciate your independent spirit. ‘Tis a good trait, but there comes a time when everyone needs to accept help when it’s offered.’

  ‘I don’t need … ’

  ‘You mean we’re going to have to go from here, and leave everything?’ Joe opened and closed his hands, as if he was trying to gather everything to himself for safe keeping. ‘Are you telling us that we’ve got to leave you!’

  ‘It’s all for the best, Ginger. She’ll be right,’ Murray replied. But Joe was already running through the door. It was the first time I had ever seen him cry properly, and I was glad he’d run away. It would be like watching Mum or Angela weeping.

  ‘We’ll think about it.’ I slouched away, as if I was going for a Sunday afternoon stroll. It didn’t do to let others know what you were thinking.

  A breeze wafted along the valley like a woman’s touch, ruffling my hair. I had taken my time walking to the woolshed. Instinctively, I knew that was where I’d find Joe.

  ‘We’ve got to leave,’ I said when I reached him. ‘We don’t have a choice.’

  Joe was sprawled headlong, his face resting downwards on his arms and he didn’t answer.

  I continued, ‘This place they want us to go to doesn’t sound bad.’ What I was saying was false and without hope. Our future stretched in front of us both like the distant bush, mile after monotonous mile of it.

  Joe rolled on to his back, his eyes red-rimmed. ‘You might not think much of the place, but it’s the only home I’ve had, real home, that is. And Murray … he’s been like a ... anyhow, he wants rid of us now, so that’s it.’

  ‘I don’t think he or Fergus want us to go.’ I didn’t know why I was defending them. The new Tony wasn’t supposed to defend anyone other than himself.

  Suddenly, Joe levered himself up. ‘It’s no good lying here wasting time. Let
’s get ready to sling our hooks. No one’s going to say Joseph Fisher’s soft.’

  On the day we left, the truck was parked outside the men’s quarters, ready for Fergus to drive to the township. ‘Now creep along and keep your heads down,’ he instructed Joe and me. ‘I know the Boss is still away, but we don’t want the Missus catching you.’

  ‘Aren’t you coming with us?’ Joe asked Murray. Joe seemed to have shrunk and looked as if he needed Murray’s support.

  ‘Too much to do, boy.’ Murray coughed a lot and pushed and pulled his hat about. ‘Not to worry about your veges, Ginger, I’ll look after them, too right I will. I know where they all are.’ He chuckled but it was mirthless. ‘Look after yourselves and take this.’ He pushed his Christmas handkerchief into Joe’s hand. ‘You might need it where you’re going.’ He ruffled Joe’s hair and aimed a fake punch at his chest. ‘Look after yourself, boy,’ he said, his voice gruff.

  ‘Too right I will,’ Joe replied, but I could see him swallowing back the tears.

  ‘We’ll meet at The Travellers and talk about the gee gees.’

  ‘Yeah, course we will.’

  The meagre contents of our orphanage suitcases rattled as Fergus lifted them onto the truck. Then we climbed into the back with them and laid flat. Fergus said when we were away from Downstons we could ride up front with him

  My trousers were tight across the thighs, and I yanked at them in order to make myself more comfortable. At least, it was the last time I would have to wear mission clothes. Once I had things figured out, I wouldn’t stay around for anyone to make a fool of me with their empty promises. Joe could do what he liked. Fergus jumped in the cab, started the engine and the truck began to chug away from the men’s quarters and towards the road leading from the farm. ‘No looking back, Joe,’ I said.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‘To my way of thinking, everyone needs good food and a comfortable home,’ Peg Millard said as she showed Joe and me around the homestead. She reminded me of a woman Friar Tuck in her brown skirt and jumper. Rolls of fat protruded from above and below a belt tied around what must have once been her waist. Peg believed a plump person should automatically be a happy one.

  To me, she seemed as strange as the Missus in a different sort of way, with her booming laugh and wobbling flesh.

  ‘I’ll soon put some meat on those skinny frames of yours. I don’t know what I do wrong with my Jack, though,’ she sighed. ‘I never can get an extra ounce on him, no matter how big the feeds. Mind you, if he weighed twenty stone he couldn’t be more content. Get on and do what you can with what you’ve got. That’s Jack’s way - the Kiwi way.’

  Peg stood between Joe and me. She put an arm round both our shoulders and guided us along the passage. ‘This is the lounge room, where we sit in the evenings.’

  Everything about the room was faded: curtains that might have started out the colour of corn were now off-white; cream walls that I reckoned had once been yellow, carpet and armchairs – brown, turning beige.

  ‘I don’t believe in keeping a room for best. Open the curtains up, let the sun in and use it.’

  I wondered what the Missus, in her darkened red lounge, would have thought of that and of the half-finished puzzle covering the occasional table. Books spilled from a cupboard, records were scattered across the floor and there was an empty beer bottle by the side of what looked to be Jack Millard’s armchair.

  ‘It was like this in the men’s quarters,’ Joe replied as if to remind Peg hers wasn’t the only place that was cosy.

  ‘I’m sure it was.’ Peg’s eyes were a peculiar brown-green, like a bird’s. ‘You’ll miss it for a while, but you’ll be right,’ she said.

  Joe snorted his doubts, and Peg directed us back along the hall. ‘These are your rooms. You’ve got one each.’ She pointed to two doors next to each other. They were open. Sunshine painted slants in the hallway.

  ‘We don’t want … ’ Joe began.

  ‘That’s good, thanks.’ I hadn’t dared hope for a room of my own.

  ‘They’re much the same, and there’s a rug next to each of your beds, so the lino doesn’t strike cold when you get up in the mornings.’

  ‘We had sort of rugs in the men’s quarters. Well, they were sacks, but what’s the difference. Fergus and Murray put ‘em there.’

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you to unpack,’ Peg said, as if she wasn’t aware of Joe’s defensiveness or of the obvious lightness of our suitcases. ‘When you’ve finished, come along to the kitchen. I’ll make you a nice ham sandwich with plenty of mustard. By the way,’ she called back, ‘There’s pyjamas under your pillows. They should do you for the time being.’

  I closed the door of my room. It had a key. I turned it in the lock. At last I had somewhere of my own.

  I circled the room – my room - touching the walls, stroking the furniture, fingering the bed cover that Mum would have called a counterpane. I wondered if the Queen had a rug by her bed so that the floor didn’t strike cold when she got up.

  A white towel was folded over a chair beneath the window. I took it and pressed it to my face. I would never use it in case it lost its fluffiness. I wanted to keep everything in the room the same as this first time I walked in.

  Outside, Joe rattled my door handle and called, ‘Let me in for pity’s sake.’

  ‘Won’t be long.’

  ‘Be hoity toity, then. See if I care,’ Joe grumbled from the other side of the door.

  As I passed the dressing table, a stranger stared back at me from the mirror. I made a puckered face at it. I posed sideways, left then right. Moving closer to the mirror I peered first at my chin, then my teeth. I pulled my lip back and looked at the empty gum socket where Paul Downston had practically knocked my teeth out and Murray had finished the job with his pliers. I put my thumb into each nostril and examined inside. Then I squashed my nose flat, rubbing the crevices either side.

  When I had finished examining myself, I placed my case on the desk in the corner of the room. I opened it and removed my clean pair of underpants, the piece of rag I’d tied my winnings in, my tooth brush, and the poetry book Joe had bought me. Inside it, I had hidden my ‘Love Mum’ piece of paper and the scrap with my age and birthday written on it. I placed everything in one of the dressing table drawers – my drawers. Then I took the pyjamas from under the pillow on my bed. I held them up, and folded them again. They smelt of fresh air and lemons. I wouldn’t wear them. They might get creased.

  I never thought I’d miss my daily work in the pigsty, but I did. It was perhaps the only thing I did miss, apart from Flinders, the dogs and, strangely, the far off river. I didn’t miss Murray and Fergus like Joe seemed to, mooning about the place, talking about them all the time, saying how much they’d done for us. He said if it wasn’t for the responsibility they’d felt towards us, they would have upped and left years ago. Actually, I thought the only reason they stayed was because they didn’t have the gumption to do anything else.

  Although Jack Millard seemed to think we were hard workers, the work was easier than at Downstons. It came without the constant cuffs around the ears, punches and kicks up the backside. And Millard didn’t goad us and call us nancy boys, lazy good-for-nothings, or pommie bastards. When he asked you to do something, he actually said, “please” and, when you’d done it, he replied, “Thanks”. Joe said it was slimey and you didn’t know where you were with someone like that. Perhaps he was right. But it reminded me of Fred, who had been the master of manners. I still missed him and Lori. I wished I knew where they were, although I would never have admitted it to anyone. I was tough Tony Addington, and tough Tony Addington didn’t wake up crying at night for his neighbours.

  We had been at Millards’ a week and had just finished Peg’s dinner of home made fish and chips, followed by her special chocolate pudding when Jack fiddled in his coat pocket and produced two small, brown envelopes. He offered one each to Joe and me across the table, saying, ‘There you go.’

&nbs
p; ‘You giving us our marching orders?’ Joe asked defiantly, pushing his empty pudding bowl away from him.

  ‘Why should I want to do that? I’m paying you. What else would I be doing? These wee brown beauties are your wages. You’ve been here a week, haven’t you? A fair day’s pay for a fair day’s work, isn’t that what they say?’ He laughed just like Peg, but without the quivering flesh.

  ‘Downston never said that.’

  ‘Be that as it may, we’re not like that here.’ Jack got up from the table and crossed to a calendar hanging on the back of the kitchen door. ‘Now about your day off.’

  ‘We get a day off?’

  ‘I expect you to work hard, but not seven days a week.’

  ‘At Downstons ...’

  ‘I reckon you’ll be wanting to go into the township to get rid of that pay packet. Until you can both drive you can go in on Wednesdays with Tai. I reckon I can handle the work around here on my own for a few hours. As soon as you can drive, you can take the truck in yourselves. Just don’t go asking me. It’s bad enough when my good lady wants me to take her there for a day out. Not that I begrudge her an outing. My good lady deserves that and more.’ He smiled across at Peg in a sickening sort of way.

  A lot of the men in Blountmere Street called their wives “their old woman”. Mainly it seemed like a joke, but sometimes it sounded hurtful and cruel. Jack made Peg sound like royalty and he was only half Peg’s size!

  ‘Sounds all right,’ I said. It didn’t do to show too much enthusiasm or gratitude. I had to keep remembering I didn’t need anyone.

  ‘So when can we start?’ Joe asked.

  ‘To spend your money?’ Jack walked back to the table. He put his hand on Joe’s shoulder, but Joe shrugged it away.

  ‘You won’t catch me spending my dosh. I meant when can we learn to drive?’

  ‘How about tomorrow afternoon? It shouldn’t be that difficult for the pair of you. Driven a tractor, haven’t you?’