Black Diamonds

by Kim Kelly

  That’s what I’m remembering as we get off the tram at Edgecliff. The things I’ll never tell France about. No one. Even I can’t believe I did that. And that was only the first time I went AWL for a tick, in my own special way. Dunc would bail me up after that, but he never hit me again; didn’t bother. Instead, he’d fiddle a few facts to give reasonable explanation for why I so often wasn’t where I was supposed to have been: covering my arse and, apparently, trying to promote me away from myself. He didn’t succeed in getting me packed off for officer training school, doubt he ever would have, but he got me decorated, Christ knows how. The citation there is true, sort of: I did lie down behind a Lewis gun for a spell as Fritz was pounding the advance of reinforcements behind me. What’s not noted is that I didn’t fire a round, couldn’t possibly have, not least of all because I failed at the Just In Case study of practically every piece of machinery more complicated than a rifle, and Fritz must have taken pity on me for that because he didn’t take a single shot at me either. What’s not noted is the reason I was there at all: I was the last to clear out of the sap, or supposed to have, and I heard the gunner up top get hit; went back to have a look and he was very kaput, no sign of his second either, just the pile of magazines next to him. He asked me to write a letter for his mother, and we got a few lines in before he couldn’t speak. So I lay there with him while he died; then I just lay there with my finger round the trigger, looking at Fritz, thinking about giving it a burl and waiting for the bullet that didn’t come, till a bloke wormed up behind me and said: ‘You can piss off now, mate.’ Why did Dunc see that I got a bells and whistles souvenir for that one? I don’t know. Maybe it was love after all, but more probably it was because you don’t get a medal for not firing at the enemy or for being inclined to duck off from the job, and the perversity of my conspicuous gallantry and devotion to duty amused him. His parting sentiments certainly amused me, exactly when I thought I’d lost my sense of humour forever.

  Why did I do any of it? As Frank Connolly said: does strange things to people. But don’t think I wasn’t sticking with rule number one: I was that scared the whole time that I couldn’t sleep, even on the few days’ break Dunc made me take in the middle of it. I had to pass out from lack of sleep, and I did not need coffee to look lively again five minutes later. I just couldn’t help it, and I know now that’s the main reason I wanted to get locked up. That was the only way I wasn’t going to do it again. I know I’m not alone in my behaviour, but it’s not the sort of thing you natter about, is it, because you can’t explain it. Maybe I thought I was buying my own life by it, thieving the only thing I could; or maybe that’s just the way the anger came out in me in that circumstance, caught between two hatreds: them and us. Either way, any way, I don’t understand it, and France shouldn’t ever have to try to. What would I say to her? For three long and very eventful weeks in hell I did my best to make myself a target? It’s better forgotten, and for the most part I can manage that. The only reason I’m thinking about it now is obvious: Dunc would write whole novels home to his father, and, take a wild stab, he’d have included one or two details about me.

  Strange, isn’t it, that I’m nervy about it, as if Dunc’s father might belt me for being an idiot today. He can only say no to us; and if he does, well, he does. And he’ll be polite about it, since he thinks I’m impressive already. Sure. He’s got my monsters in his house, and I’m expecting to see them. Waiting for one of them to hit me on the head. I can’t believe I’m doing this. When France suggested it, it seemed perfectly logical, to just walk in and ask the question, nothing to lose but Drummond, and a whole coal mine to win, but now …

  ‘You all right?’ says France; she can feel everything she doesn’t know in me anyway. Very good thing she’s here, and wide awake; she can be impressive for the pair of us.

  No, not all right. ‘Yep.’

  You should see this house. Jesus. It’s not a house, it’s a suburb.

  So’s Mr Edward Duncan when he comes down the hall after we’re shown in. He’s as tall as Dunc but broader, thicker, everywhere; he might be sixty-odd but you wouldn’t want to try to put your shoulder into him. France looks like a pretend human between us as she makes the introductions. He’s so pleased to see us, ‘Mr and Mrs Ackerman,’ I’m frustrated that I can’t shake his hand. He slaps me on the shoulder in lieu of it, making me glad I’m not slight either; he’d knock a small man through the wall.

  He takes us into this sitting room that’s indescribable. You don’t want to sit on the furniture and the carpet on the boards is so thick that you’re not sure if you’re actually walking or hovering above it. I’d be a bit revolted if I could comprehend it properly, comprehend that this bloke lives in this huge place alone too, but at the same time I’m thinking it’d be a novelty living in a house where you’d never ever clock the top of your head on a door frame. Not a monster in sight; but there’s a big portrait of a young Dunc, wearing a kilt, above the mantelpiece: he’s saying to me: After everything, you’re not seriously going to lose your nerve now, are you, Ackerman?

  His father’s saying: ‘Sit down, sit down. Now what’ll you drink?’

  ‘I’d like a cup of tea, please,’ says France.

  ‘And you, Mr Ackerman?’

  ‘I’ll have a glass of water, thanks. And call me Daniel. Please.’

  ‘Not a Scotch?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Don’t be shy.’

  For Christ’s sake, what is it with some people? It’s only eleven o’clock in the morning. I say: ‘I don’t drink.’

  ‘What, not a drop?’

  ‘No. Thanks.’

  ‘Oh. Well. Good for you.’

  France is looking out the window trying not to laugh, so she can keep the small talk going, about the gorgeous garden out the front.

  Tea, cake and shocking water arrive in seconds and he says: ‘So, I’m sure you didn’t stop in just to see old me and my fuchsia hedge. What can I do for you?’

  No flies on Mr Duncan.

  France looks at me: Go on, then.

  All right; I tell him: ‘Francine and I need to borrow some money.’

  And if France could kick me in the shins she would: I was supposed to mention the idea first.

  But Mr Duncan says, ‘How much?’ as if I’m going to ask him for tram fare.

  I say: ‘Fifteen thousand pounds at four per cent interest fixed over three years.’

  He doesn’t blink. ‘What for?’

  So I tell him all about it, and once I get started, the words just come. It’s different when you know what you’re on about, isn’t it.

  France interrupts: ‘It’s all set out in our proposal, Mr Duncan,’ handing over the fat envelope, blink, blink, blink. Maybe I was banging on a bit too long.

  Mr Duncan puts it on the table beside him and smiles at us both. ‘Thank you. My solicitor can read that, and draft up terms.’

  You’re saying yes? Just like that? Fuck. You really do have a spare fifteen thousand pounds? I know you’re filthy rich, but thought you might have to at least think about it.

  ‘But there’ll be a personal condition as well,’ he adds, to me.

  Anything.

  ‘I want a painting, when you’re up to it, of Richard. Or something of Richard.’

  Too easy. No thought involved from me either. ‘Sure. I can do that.’ Already: Dunc, out the back of the huts in camp, cleaning his toenails, with the tear splash on his knee. His father is a very large man, and I’ll give him the best of the truth I can offer.

  He says to France: ‘Must beg your pardon, my dear, as regards my sneaky divulgence to our European collector; couldn’t resist. But I swear I had no idea he was our elbow doctor too — that’s what you call providence, is it not?’ But he’s not asking for any sort of pardon; clearly someone who decides his own providence. And to me: ‘Trust no harm done, eh. Trust you gave the pair of us more of a startle than we did you. He’s always at me to let him have one of them in particula
r, you know: the Virgin in Albert. He was here last night, looking at her again. Funny chap, good man, avid about his interests to a fault. You still want me to hang onto them?’

  ‘Unless you feel inclined to burn them.’ Out before I could shove my fist in my idiot mouth. For whatever reason, I think they mean more to him than me; maybe something of Richard. How else would he know it’s a picture of Albert? Shit.

  Yes: he’s appalled: ‘Why would I do that?’

  I’m that embarrassed I can’t say anything.

  But then he adds: ‘After I’ve gone to the trouble and expense of having them framed, my boy?’

  And he leaves it there, Francine’s bells doing the rest. But I’m caught in a thought that sounds like someone else’s: I’d never imagined them framed; hope he’s not bunged them in anything fancy; hope it’s plain, timber. Don’t ask: I don’t really want to know. Do I? No.

  I look at Francine, chatting away; but I’m not listening, just thinking: if I get any luckier I’m going to have to start paying an extra tax somewhere.

  FRANCINE

  Desperate to kiss him, I mean properly, indecently. Can’t wait till we get home: that’s hours and hours away. So I pull him into a lane that runs between two not-quite-finished apartment buildings on New South Head Road.

  He pulls away, glinting badly. ‘Stop it, France, you’ll make me dangerous.’

  I know. Doctor Nichols’s orders: nothing that will make the babies come too early. But I’m craving him so terribly. He rubs my tummy through my clothes and that only makes it worse. I’ve recanted a little from my atheism again and decided that there is a God or god: that one who put Daniel on this earth to torture me, mercilessly.

  I say: ‘That went well, didn’t it.’ Ackerman business instinct: whack it down and say there you go, then bludgeon benefactor with ten minutes’ solid facts and figures, then insult his generosity and sensitivity. If coal’s an industry for the uncompromising, then perhaps the King of Uxor won’t have trouble with future negotiations at the top end.

  ‘Mmn,’ he says; and he’s the cat that ate the cream, seventeen rats, five rabbits and a side of beef.

  To celebrate we eat, of course. At least he does; I can’t eat too much in one go, already. Unbelievable: what am I going to be like when the babies do come? I’m enormous already. Mrs Moran said second babies are always bigger; but these babies are … don’t think about it. Watch their father attacking his plate. Elbow on the table, no problem: emancipated hand wielding knife by Ackerman’s strongest instinct against weakness: food. I love watching him eat: it really is heroic. I ask him how his flash- Metropole capitalism feels now and he says: ‘The crackling is especially tasty today.’

  Heading for home on the three o’clock train and I’m dozing pleasantly. I really will lie in in the morning, for a little while. Daniel can manage breakfast: gentle exercise can begin with stirring porridge, cracking eggs, flipping bacon and buttering bread.

  He says to me now as I wake at the approach to Parramatta Station: ‘No more drudging for you, my frau.’

  ‘If you insist.’

  ‘I do. Mum’ll help, and maybe Kathryn’d like to come round after school sometimes. I’ll get that bathroom put in, too.’

  ‘We can’t really afford that now.’

  ‘Last splash, ay? Can’t have you bathing in the kitchen in this condition. You’ll frighten the children soon.’

  The babies seem to shift around in laughter with me, and again when he adds: ‘And I suppose you should teach me how to drive that car, while you can still fit behind the wheel.’

  I’d punch him on the shoulder for that if I wasn’t sitting on the wrong side of him because there were no left-side seats free when we got on and he wouldn’t have me sit on the aisle, ever. Instead I screw my nose up at him and find I want to kiss him indecently again. Fan face in the stream of afternoon sunlight.

  Then I have the oddest moment of maternal derangement yet. We’re still stopped at the station and I glance out the window at the town. Well, it’s not really a town now, but more the outer bounds of sprawling Sydney. I can see a kookaburra sitting on the top of a telegraph pole next to the stationmaster’s house; it’s in profile, looking towards the countryside beyond. When I look down again, there’s a woman right at the window, staring back at me. She’s stout and plain and reminds me a little of Polly, the housekeeper Father and I had when we arrived in Lithgow, but even though I haven’t seen Polly for years, I know this woman isn’t her. This woman is much older, white hair, but a plump healthy face. She smiles broadly at me, grey eyes, a missing eyetooth, and says: ‘Goodbye. Don’t come back.’ Muffled but clear through the glass. The train pulls out and she waves.

  I say to Daniel: ‘That was odd.’

  He says: ‘What was?’

  ‘That woman. Look.’

  ‘What woman?’

  Of course he can’t see her now we’ve chugged away; I can’t see her any more either past the clouds of steamy smoke.

  I say: ‘She said goodbye, to me.’

  He looks at me: lunatic.

  I say: ‘She did, and she waved. She said don’t come back.’

  Lunatic, in need of a good lie-down. Indeed. Except I am quite sure that did just happen. Don’t come back. Hmn. Not likely to return to Babel unless we really have to. I decide that this is my imagination merely confirming what I know is true: goodbye Sydney. For good. I snooze some more, then wake at Penrith and see the mountains. The wave of forest rising from the plain, the wide Nepean River purpling in the almost dusk. The babies swim around again, and I feel a deep surge of excitement as the train pulls upwards after Emu. Then I close my eyes and see the men shovelling and shovelling and shovelling our coal into the fire that drives our engine. Too exhausting.

  I wake in the night as we head down into Lithgow, the furnaces of the ironworks glowing to light our way. Sarah is there waiting for us at the station, lamps on the trap; Hayseed snorting mist. Dear Hayseed, lugging us all the way home in the dark.

  ‘But Aunty France never puts that much butter on.’ That was Charlie, in the kitchen.

  Daniel says: ‘Aunty France isn’t making your crib, is she. And if you wake her up with your whingeing, you’ll go to school without.’

  Don’t worry, Charlie, I’ve been awake for ages: babies woke with the whistle and have been trying to have a game of tip inside me ever since. I’ve been lying here, gestating, relishing this sensation, wanting them to keep at it until Daniel comes in, so he can feel them too. It’s June now; three months tops before we see them.

  Daniel won’t come in for a while yet, though, not till he’s completed his routine. Every morning, he gets up, washes, shaves, gets all fed, watered, dressed, combed and toothbrushed, sends Harry and Charlie off to school or to do some job or other, then he ties Danny by a rope at the waist to one of the back verandah poles while he exercises, no, exercises: like penance for the worst sins.

  Babies have given up their play and I haul my great self out to the verandah to see Achilles at it. He’s already done the sit-ups, and has moved on to pressing himself up against the boards. He enjoys this; wouldn’t stop for a fire. No oil needed in that corrected hinge, just horseradish and eucalyptus liniment he rubs into it every night and the whole house smells of it. It’s positively freezing, there’s still a sheen of ice on the boards near the house, but his hair is wet with sweat. And nearly-two-year-old is trying to mimic him; not quite succeeding: slapping his palms on the boards and rocking back and forth on his little fat knees. Good morning.

  First time I saw Daniel do this, must be nearly a month ago, I queried the wisdom of punishing elbow so soon; he said that it wouldn’t do it if it couldn’t and he wants to be fit again; he does another round before bed, says that it wears him out so he sleeps better. Hmn. However, I have to admit that, shirtless, the benefit is already obvious and more than a bit pleasing to behold. And somehow he looks even larger for it. Or perhaps men just take longer to grow than women; I wonder if
he’s stopped growing: he’s not twenty-four yet. Maybe his new shirts won’t last for centuries.

  When he’s finished he wipes his face on an old towel, kneeling, sees me at the doorway. ‘It’s too cold, France. Get back inside.’

  I laugh at him, breathy because these babies don’t think a full breath is a necessity. But then he stands up and all of a sudden I’m weepy. I see those boys, so long ago it seems, in Hyde Park and on the train: how many of them have not become men; how many of them can’t stand up? The jumble of scars on My Boy’s arm are pink from the exertion; I see his right boot needs resoling again, as it wears down so quickly on the outside, and he is perfect, magnificent as the first time I gasped at the sight of him.

  He says: ‘What’s wrong?’

  I want to tell him, but it’s too vast an emotion; I can’t articulate more than: ‘I’m so happy you’re here.’ That says it all anyway. His arms around me say it twice.

  Doctor Adinov has a face that’s so flat it only has one outstanding expression: inscrutable. But at this moment he’s making up for that with a look of very easily discernible delight; a look that’s at odds with what he’s looking at. And I’m looking at him, so as to avoid looking at what he’s looking at: the painting.

  It’s macabre. Worse than The Holy Monsters, for repellent, overwhelming. It’s the first time I’ve seen it too, close up, since room is invitation only: not that Daniel says so, I just know so. I feel disloyal, avoiding it now, but it’s stomach-turning, and there’s not much room inside me for that. Force myself: try to see the gore as masterful for its … goriness. A cruel lesson in anatomy. Look at the light instead: it’s coming from somewhere outside the picture, illuminating the blackness of the tunnel floor, the curve and roughness of the wall behind, the smooth edges of the skip tracks and what looks like a dusting of yellow wattle pollen collected in the cracks of the sleepers. Be astounded: how does one teach oneself to do that? It doesn’t seem possible; but perhaps that’s only because I could never do it if I studied for a thousand years. And I haven’t seen the things that Daniel has, to be able to imagine, no, photograph in my mind a scene like this.