by Alison Booth
George heaved a sigh. He was reluctant to get up. It was a quarter past eight on a cool Friday night, he’d had a busy week, and the last thing he wanted to do was talk on the phone. But it would be churlish to grumble. Eileen was busy with her sewing and all he was doing was slouching in his armchair and staring at the flickering red dome of the kerosene heater. As he got up, he glanced at her embroidery: she was putting the finishing touches to the lorikeet’s red beak. After limping into the drafty hallway, he shut the door behind him. Although Andy’s bedroom door was closed, the blaring of his transistor radio would make conversation impossible, and George banged on the door before picking up the receiver.
‘Hello, Cadwallader’s Quality Meats,’ he said, forgetting he wasn’t in the shop.
‘Is that Mr Cadwallader?’ said a male voice.
At this moment Andy opened his bedroom door a fraction and stuck his head through the gap between the door and the jamb. ‘Is it for me?’
‘No,’ George said, after placing a hand over the mouthpiece. He waved his son away. ‘Yes,’ he said into the receiver, ‘George Cadwallader speaking.’
‘Gilbert Barker here. Head of Stambroke College.’
George’s heart sank. A phone call from the headmaster on a Friday night could mean only one thing. There’d been an accident of some sort involving Jim. ‘What’s up? Is my son all right?’
‘No, he’s not all right, Mr Cadwallader. That’s the thing. He’s not all right.’
‘What’s happened?’ George braced himself against the wall.
‘He’s gone missing. Didn’t turn up for dinner and hasn’t been seen since about five o’clock this afternoon.’
‘He’s been missing for three hours and only now you phone me?’ George didn’t try to keep the anger out of his voice.
‘Don’t be like that, Mr Cadwallader. People have been searching all over the college and grounds for him. All over. He hasn’t called you, has he?’
‘No, and my wife’s been home all afternoon.’
‘That’s a shame. I’d really hoped he’d contact you. Philip Chapman is missing too. Do you know young Chapman? From down your way, I believe.’
‘Yes.’
‘Both of them have gone. None of their things are missing though. Philip was last seen just after lessons were over. It seems a bit odd that they’ve both vanished.’
It was strange and probably a coincidence. ‘You’d better call in the police.’
‘Oh, we will, Mr Cadwallader. Don’t worry, we’re doing that next. Just wanted to warn you though, once I’d checked you’d heard nothing.’
‘Warn me of what?’
‘That he’s missing, of course.’ Dr Barker sounded tense and his vowels strangled. ‘And that ten-year-old boys don’t persuade sixteen-year-old boys to run away, it’s normally the other way around. Big boys lead, little boys follow.’
His voice shaking, George managed to say, ‘Jim’s a prefect. We won’t jump to any conclusions just yet, Dr Barker. It seems to me that, if boys in your care go missing, it’s up to you to learn why and to find them.’
‘Jim is a prefect, Mr Cadwallader, I made him so. And he’s a very responsible young man. I daresay they’ll both turn up soon, with perfectly reasonable explanations. So don’t worry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Now let me give you my direct line, so you can phone me right away if you hear anything, and I’ll call you too once I hear some news.’
As soon as George had replaced the receiver, Andy turned the volume of his transistor up again and the partition wall began to vibrate with the sounds of Dream Baby, How Long Must I Dream?
Jim running away; Jim doing something rash; Jim leading a younger boy into mischief. It was so completely out of character that it had to be a mistake. Much more likely was that the two events were unrelated, the boys each involved in separate accidents.
But George knew that he was kidding himself. Automatically, he thumped on Andy’s door before stumping back into the lounge room to tell Eileen the news, or the lack of it. It wasn’t a good prospect: Jim was either lost, or about to be expelled, or both.
Later, George went out onto the back verandah. He’d left Eileen and Andy in the lounge room, still talking. Eileen was beside herself with anxiety while Andy was trying to distract her by suggesting over and over again that Jim had gone to the pub, and that of course he wouldn’t have taken Philip with him.
George gazed out over the yard. It was the sort of clear night that would be good for stargazing, but he didn’t feel in the slightest bit interested in the celestial hemisphere anymore, not even as a distraction.
His nerves were on edge and all he wanted was for the phone to ring.
Chapter 37
When Jim came to, he was sitting on the kerb with his head between his knees. He was okay, but where was Philip?
At the sight of the slender figure lying on the road, Jim’s heart turned, and his vision sharpened with the shock. From nowhere, a policeman had appeared: puce-faced, with a body like a rectangular prism. Jim glanced at the people already milling round. Eager, curious, concerned faces. Maybe this accident hadn’t happened. Maybe it was just a dream and when Jim chose to look again he would find that Philip was upright yet, and with that awful expression of desolation replaced by happiness. An instant later Jim checked the road but Philip was still lying there. Nothing had changed. The boy was unmoving.
Jim took a deep breath and stood up. Only a few moments could have passed but people were crowding close; there were far too many of them, pushing and shoving and screaming. Shaking too much to hold his ground, Jim was thrust backwards and began to panic. He lost sight of Philip altogether as a couple of large men, reeking of beer, edged in front of him. Forced again to step back, he turned and saw the Aboriginal man wearing Philip’s boater disappearing into the pub, and he noticed that the others who’d been sitting on the pavement had vanished. Different people had turned up though, dozens of them. Jim had to find a way round them somehow. He had to get to Philip.
It had been madness to call out when he did. It would have been far better to keep quiet until he was standing right next to Philip, at which point he could have grabbed hold of his arm and asked where he was going. It was the bloody boater that had distracted him. That’s what being a prefect did to you, made you focus on trivia like uniforms when all that really mattered was that despair on Philip’s face. Perhaps he’d meant to step under the car. Perhaps he’d intended to kill himself, and Jim could have stopped it but hadn’t.
On unsteady legs, Jim edged past a man and woman with their arms around one another. They were grinning and laughing, as if the accident had been laid on for their entertainment, and he hated them for that. Elbowing the man rather harder than necessary, Jim wriggled past. ‘Watch it, mate,’ the man shouted, administering a kick to Jim’s shins. ‘Look where you’re going. We were here first.’
Now at last Jim was standing on the kerb in front of the hefty policeman he’d first seen. Another three had turned up from somewhere and were bending over Philip’s body that was lying immobile on the road.
‘Stand back, the lot of you,’ the hefty policeman bellowed over the racket. ‘An ambulance is on its way. Did anyone see what happened?’
Stepping onto the road, Jim said, ‘I did.’ At that moment Philip seemed to stir but, before Jim could be sure of this, the driver of the car moved towards him and blocked his line of vision.
‘The boy stepped straight in front of my car.’ Wearing a pinstriped suit, the man was visibly shaking. ‘He came out of nowhere. There was nothing I could do. It was his fault.’
‘We can get more on that in a minute,’ the policeman said.
Jim wiped the back of his hand across his eyes and wondered if he was going to throw up. ‘Your car hit him,’ he said slowly and carefully to the man in the suit. ‘There was a terr
ible thud.’ His anxiety manifested itself in a rush of anger that made him want to punch this man, on whose forehead and upper lip beads of perspiration were starting to form. His own apprehension was now making him feel giddy and it was difficult to think clearly. Philip might be badly injured or even dying. Concussion, broken bones, internal bleeding, who could guess what else at this stage.
‘Keep him still,’ he could hear one of the policemen saying to the officer kneeling closest to Philip. ‘Don’t move him, mate.’
‘What’s the boy’s name, you?’ The hefty policeman stared hard at Jim.
‘Philip Chapman,’ he replied, voice shaking.
‘What school are you from?’
‘Stambroke College.’
‘Both of you in uniform in the Cross? That’s a bit odd. You don’t live around here, do you?’
‘No. We’re both boarders.’ We were both boarders, he thought. That period of life was over. Brain damage or even death for one boy. Expulsion for the other.
‘Are you brothers?’
‘No.’
‘Well, you won’t be going back to Stambroke yet awhile. Who’s his next of kin, do you know?’
Philip’s aunt, that’s whose name Jim should give. The Chapman parents were still overseas and wouldn’t be much use. Philip spoke highly of his aunt and Jim had seen her at the start of the last free weekend, when she’d collected Philip from Barton House. ‘Mrs Susan Williamson,’ he said. ‘They live in Hunters Hill. Philip’s uncle’s name’s Fred.’
After writing this in a notebook, the policeman turned to the driver of the car. Peering around them, Jim saw Philip’s unmoving form still surrounded by the three policemen. ‘He’s opening his eyes,’ said one of the officers, a thin man with sharp features. ‘No, he’s shut them again. He’s conscious, but barely.’
‘What’s that noise he’s making?’ another policeman said.
‘He’s groaning.’
‘That’s a good sign. Keep talking to him. We don’t want him losing consciousness.’
Jim moved closer. A trickle of blood was oozing out of Philip’s nose and onto the surface of the road. His face was deathly white. At this sight, Jim’s stomach churned.
If only the ambulance would come. Too much time was being wasted. What if the rectangular officer was wrong and no one had phoned the hospital? Perhaps he should check, just in case. There was a phone box on the other side of the road and he had plenty of change in his pockets. But after taking two tentative steps in that direction, he found his blazered arm was in the firm grip of the policeman. ‘I don’t think you’re going anywhere yet, son.’
‘I thought of using the phone.’
‘There’ll be time for that in the hospital. You can go in the ambulance with one of my men.’
And here it was at last, its siren wailing and lights flashing. Two of the police officers began to shift back the crowd that was pressing forward once more as the ambulance pulled up. Shortly afterwards, men in white jackets displaced the policemen around Philip’s prone body and seconds later he was on a stretcher being loaded into the back of the ambulance.
Jim glanced at the men strapping down the stretcher and fiddling with some tubes, inside the van. Though wanting to look, at the same time he didn’t want to see, for he was starting to feel again that he might throw up.
‘Get in the back with him,’ the hefty policeman said, more kindly now. ‘And you get in the front, Martin,’ he instructed his sharp-featured colleague.
‘A head injury,’ said the ambulance man, riding in the back with Jim. ‘Could be contusions as well. Subarachnoid haemorrhage maybe. Poor little bugger, what was he doing up in the Cross? Are you his brother?’
‘Friend.’
‘Keep talking to him, mate. He’ll know your voice. Go on, start speaking, we don’t want to let him lapse into unconsciousness. What’s your name?’
‘Jim Cadwallader.’
‘Well, Jim, start talking. About anything. Ask him his name. See if there’s any confusion.’
Crouched next to Philip, Jim began to speak. ‘What’s your name? It’s Philip, isn’t it? What’s my name? It’s Jim, can you understand me? If you can, you’ll know how crazy this is. We’re travelling in an ambulance to hospital. We’ll soon be there.’ But Philip seemed unable to hear and certainly made no attempt to answer, though there was a slight fluttering of his eyelids before they shut tight again.
‘Keep it up, Jim,’ said the ambulance man at his side.
‘Hang in there, Philip. Stay awake. For God’s sake, don’t let go. You’ll never have to go back to Stambroke. Just think of that, it’s got to be what you’ve wanted. Your aunt and uncle are coming to the hospital, and I am too. Wake up, Philip. Don’t go to sleep.’ Now Jim took Philip’s hand, which felt icy cold. ‘He’s freezing,’ he said to the ambulance man.
‘There’s a pulse though. Here, I’ll give him an extra blanket. Keep talking, Jim.’
Jim was only dimly aware of the screaming of the ambulance siren, and perhaps the brakes and the tyres too, as the vehicle hurtled around corners and through traffic lights. He tried not to think that it was his fault the boy had got knocked down. All his energies should be focused on willing him to remain conscious. ‘Stay with me, Philip,’ he said. ‘Think of all the good things. Think of music. Of those pieces you want to play. The Talivaldis Variations, for instance. What’s your name? It’s Philip, and I’m Jim. Your friend, Jim. Think of Mrs Vincent, and Zidra too. It was Zidra’s father who wrote that music. Maybe you’ll be a composer too when you grow up. Or a pianist. Well, you’re that already. Not a rugby player though, or a test cricketer. Stay with me, Philip. For God’s sake open your eyes and look at me. Or squeeze my hand. Just a little bit. Give me a signal. Tell me your name? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me.’
For an instant he thought there might have been the slightest pressure of Philip’s fingers on his own. A gentle touch, like a butterfly settling. He put his ear close to Philip’s mouth but there was no sound apart from the faintest respiration of air. He’d give anything to hear his stutter once more, anything. Again he felt a light touch on his hand and a surge of hope, before he realised it was just the rocking of the ambulance as it pulled up in front of the Accident and Emergency entrance of St Vincent’s Hospital.
‘We’ll take over now,’ said the ambulance man, who’d been riding in the back. Philip and his stretcher were lifted onto a trolley and wheeled off, and Jim was somehow shunted into a chair in the crowded waiting room of accident and emergency, with the thin-faced policemen by his side.
‘Time to get a bit more information from you,’ the man said, pulling out a notebook and a stub of pencil. ‘You’re from Stambroke College, I hear. Your headmaster will be turning up soon, a Dr Barker I believe. Now, how come you two were wandering around the Cross on a weekday evening, when you should have been in Vaucluse?’
Jim gloomily inspected the shabby cream walls of the waiting area. The policeman had finished with him for the moment, and gone off to find some coffee. Funny how quickly things can go wrong, he thought. When he’d seen Philip running across the lawn just a few hours before, he’d decided that his only option was to go after him. Now he realised all too clearly how wrong that was. He should have informed the housemaster and the principal, and let them make the decisions.
Would Dr Barker believe that Jim had followed Philip rather than plan the escape himself? He had no idea of the answer. Although he’d found Philip, it was too late to stop the accident; he’d maybe even caused the accident. Yet who could say what might have happened to Philip otherwise? Alone in a seedy part of Sydney, a dangerous part of Sydney. Perhaps unsure of what to do next, and unwilling to return to Barton House.
After further contemplation of the cream wall, Jim decided that on balance he’d done the right thing chasing after Philip. It didn
’t really matter what other people thought. You constructed your own standards of right and wrong – and it might take years – and after that you followed them. Some people accepted society’s standards and blindly adhered to these but he wasn’t going to be one of those. This wasn’t to say that these standards didn’t matter. They were crucial, you just had to consider the legal system to see that. It was a society’s prejudices that you had to watch out for.
When he’d asked the nursing sister at the desk how Philip was doing, she said it might be hours yet before they knew anything, and he was to sit quietly and wait. ‘Probably concussion,’ she said. ‘Ah, here’s the registrar, let’s hear it from him. Not that he’s looking after your friend. The consultant’s been called in for that.’
The registrar looked tired and barely listened to what the nurse asked him. ‘Got to go,’ he said. ‘There’s been another emergency.’ He paused for a moment to look at Jim. ‘Maybe you should go home. A blow to the head’s a process, not an event. Things often get worse over the first few days. No point hanging around. Go home for some rest, and come back in the morning.’
‘He didn’t mean to upset you,’ the nurse said after the registrar had gone.
‘I have to wait until the relatives get here. And the headmaster.’
Jim returned to his seat. Things often got worse over the first few days, that’s all the registrar could say. But Jim knew that already from when Meyer got his head smashed in a game of rugby several years ago. Vomiting, confusion, visual disturbances, amnesia. All indicating a rise in intracranial pressure. Meyer had eventually returned to school, but he’d never been quite the same again.
Jim’s reason, worn thin by the evening’s events, was beginning to desert him. At this moment Philip could be in the operating theatre, or on a mortuary slab, or heaven alone knew where, while all Jim could do was sit and confront the grotesque fantasies filling his head.
Glancing down at his hands, he observed their trembling. He stood up and tucked them into his trouser pockets before beginning to pace up and down. The room was starting to empty as other visitors to Casualty were attended to, but still there was no news of Philip.
