By the Currawong's Call

by Welton B. Marsland

  Jonah looked surprised briefly, but he removed his hat and ventured further into the church nonetheless. ‘I’m not good at speechifying off the cuff,’ he warned.

  ‘I don’t expect you to,’ Matthew assured. ‘I’ll do the talking if you’ll just be by my side.’

  Jonah’s expression turned serious. ‘Well. That, I am.’

  Matthew inclined his head, accepting the assertion, then led the way down the aisle. They were quite alone, the church itself quiet and its thick walls muffling most of the city sounds from without. Matthew chose the second-most pew and ushered Jonah in.

  ‘Do we kneel or what?’ Jonah whispered.

  ‘No need.’ Matthew put a hand to Jonah’s nearest shoulder. ‘Just sit.’

  They sat, and Matthew let his hand stay on Jonah’s shoulder a few moments while he contemplated his next words. He was accepting of Jonah’s irreligiousness, had been since even before their relationship was characterised as friendship. With Jonah joining him in prayer for the first time, Matthew knew it would be unbecoming to lace that prayer with too much dogmatic rhetoric. When he felt he had his thoughts in order, he let go Jonah’s shoulder, placed his hat on the bench beside him, and rested clasped hands on the pew-back in front. Jonah followed his lead and they both bowed their heads.

  ‘Merciful Father, our aide, succour and strength,’ Matthew began, voice clear but volume respectfully low. ‘Grant unto us, O Lord, that in times of prosperity we are not proud, and that in times of adversity we fall not to infidelity or desperation, but that with a constant faith we may call for help unto thee.’ He was aware of Jonah’s breathing at his side. ‘We humbly ask and beseech thee, watch over our endeavours and journeys, keep us safe from harm and let our travels be fruitful. In lightness and love, we honour thee. Amen.’

  ‘Amen,’ Jonah echoed quietly. He spoke the affirmation with a short A sound—the first time, to Matthew’s ears, that his American heritage had ever betrayed itself in his speech.

  ***

  Matthew stared down at the shape of his own initials. The straight lines of the M, the proud sweep of the O, both undulating as Jonah’s chest rose and fell. Jonah noticed him looking and lightly dragged his knuckles along Matthew’s jawline, drawing Matthew’s gaze back up to his face and rewarding him with a lazy grin. Beneath the blankets, he tangled their legs, pressing their hips even closer together as Matthew moved above him. The rest of the world had fallen away.

  ‘Happy with the artwork?’ Jonah asked.

  ‘It’s … confronting seeing my monogram etched into you.’

  Jonah slid a hand over Matthew’s heart. ‘Likewise. Bloke does a nice J.’ He moved his other hand behind Matthew’s head, fingers sliding into his hair. Even more confronting than the tattoo, his gaze was bold, all smoulder, rendering Matthew unable to look anywhere else but right back.

  ‘First night I came to ya,’ Jonah started but paused, moaning softly. ‘Walking up the gully to the back of the church. The one thing I was worried about, only thing I wondered if I’d be able to cope with … bloody chest hair.’

  The smoulder dissolved into a little, self-deprecating laugh. Matthew gazed down at him and imagined he felt wings springing forth from his back. ‘Tell me more,’ he whispered. ‘What other thoughts troubled you on that walk?’

  Jonah’s hand over his heart rubbed at him, rubbed the very chest hair he’d been wary of. ‘Thought about what we might do together. How all that might work.’ He tilted his pelvis, making Matthew’s breathing double over. ‘Worried what I’d say if you asked to bugger me. How would I tell ya No? Even bigger worry, what if I said Yes?’

  Matthew pressed their foreheads together.

  ‘I knew it’d change me,’ Jonah continued, voice barely travelling the scant distance between them. ‘I couldn’t have guessed just how profoundly it would, though. My God, you’ve thrown a spanner in me works!’

  Matthew smiled. ‘My apologies, Sergeant.’

  ‘Fuck that,’ Jonah returned, and kissed him until they were both breathless.

  ***

  It was the most indulgent, hedonistic day Matthew had ever given himself over to. Drinking, making love, talking, dozing, then waking and doing it over. They didn’t even venture out for food, not feeling the need until evening had darkened already. With grumbling stomachs then, they dressed and drifted downstairs, seeking a light supper around seven o’clock. As they sat again on high stools at the bar, Myrtle brought in a telegram envelope that she pushed silently across the counter to Jonah. The message within read simply, ALBIE SAYS CHEERS FOR THE HORSE AND WATCH YOURSELF STOP.

  Jonah smiled as he folded the note and slid it into a suit pocket. ‘The Campbell sisters are already carrying out instructions, it seems.’

  Matthew caught sight of them in one of the huge wall mirrors and, for the first time, felt that civilian attire was sitting as comfortably upon himself as it did on Jonah.

  They had finished their meal and were laughing over something Matthew would later not recall, when a voice across the room warned everyone, ‘Ay up! It’s the traps!’

  Jonah, glass halfway to his mouth, laughed how he hadn’t heard anyone use that term for the police in years. Then stopped abruptly with his eyes on the door. Matthew swivelled on his bar stool to see what had silenced him.

  George Hart, Jonah’s constable from Dinbratten, stood in the doorway, slowly removing his helmet.

  ‘Missed your train, Sarg?’

  Matthew’s stomach turned over on itself.

  ‘Myrtle,’ Jonah said calmly to their landlady on the other side of the counter. ‘Do ya mind if we use the breakfast room for a private word?’

  ‘Of course you can, Pup,’ she told him, her usual wide smile suddenly lost.

  Jonah drained his drink and stood up. Matthew stood with him, though his knees felt decidedly shaky. As they moved away from their seats, Matthew noticed Jonah tap Myrtle’s hand briefly and she gave the very barest of acknowledging nods in return.

  George stood aside at the doorway to let them pass, then he followed, helmet under his arm, as they walked to the empty breakfast room.

  Jonah turned up a gas jet on the wall and that, coupled with ambient light from the hallway flooding through the glass double doors when closed, gave them enough light to see each other by.

  ‘I can’t believe you didn’t change digs, Sarg.’ George placed his helmet on the nearest table and leaned on the back of a chair as he looked at them. ‘Too bloody easy, this.’

  ‘Should’ve signed out this morning as planned,’ Jonah conceded. ‘Moved into somewhere else. Ya got me there, George. I got sloppy. But I was hardly expecting ya, was I?’ He glanced over his shoulder at the wall clock. ‘Not due back into Ratty until just about now. Coach would’ve only just set down. How’d you get the drop?’

  George looked a little pleased with himself. ‘Already had some suspicion you might pull something. Asked my cousin on the railways to check the train when it got to him in Daylesford and telegraph me. Sure enough—no priest, no copper. I jumped a ride with King’s apple run to Horsham, made the Adelaide train going to Melbourne from there.’ He stopped leaning on the chair long enough to spread his hands to his sides. ‘And here I am.’

  Matthew willed his throat to work. ‘What made you think we’d miss our train?’

  ‘I know what youse are.’

  It was the most chilling statement Matthew could imagine.

  ‘Ya know fuck all,’ was Jonah’s defiant response. He was keeping his composure admirably.

  ‘That right?’ asked George. ‘I kinda always knew something would come up, sooner or later. Just wasn’t sure what it’d be.’ He made a frustrated noise. ‘You’re just too odd, Sarg!’

  Jonah huffed a derisive laugh. ‘Odd?’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ George continued. ‘You sure come across as a nice enough bloke, and yer easy to work with. But some of your ways and ideas … they’re just weird. Sorry—’ he laughed lightly, ‘—but it
’s the truth. Maybe it’s ‘cos of you being a Yank and all. Son of a what was it now? Quakers? For God’s sake!’ His eyes were wide. ‘It should’ve been obvious from the get-go you weren’t cut out for this.’

  ‘Cut out for what?’ demanded Jonah.

  ‘The Australian way!’ said George. ‘Life in the bush! I dunno! The whole thing. Fitting in with all the other blokes. I see ya trying your best, with the footy and the drinking and the cricket and the birds and all—’

  ‘He’s actually very good at the cricket, George,’ Matthew tried to interrupt but was ignored.

  ‘—but you’re just too different! It’s like you try so hard you end up getting it wrong.’ Spittle landed on the table. ‘Like, yeah, you like your drinking, but you do it with darkies in a pub run by a woman! And that’s just for starters.’

  The look Jonah was giving his constable was not so much anger, as Matthew might expect, but sadness and disappointment. ‘Do you own a calendar, George?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A calendar,’ Jonah repeated slowly. ‘Haven’t ya noticed there’s a whole new bloody century just around the corner? Things are supposed to progress, y’know, we’re not supposed to just keep on doing the same old shitty things because that’s how they’ve always bloody been. Why not women running a few things? Why NOT folk of different races getting along instead of being complete cunts to each other? What’s so fuckin’ wrong with any of it?’

  George’s eyes narrowed. ‘It’s just not how things are! Why d’you wanna go all upsetting everything?’

  ‘Upsetting everything?’ Jonah tilted his head in curiosity. ‘Is this personal?’ he suddenly asked. ‘Are you angry at me because you’ve talked yerself into feeling I’ve let ya down or some bullshit?’

  A muscle in George’s jaw tensed momentarily. ‘I looked up to you, Sarg. You were this … big bloody hero that I—’ he jabbed himself in the chest, ‘—I got to work with. Why wouldn’t I feel let down, eh? Finding out the bloke I worked side by side with for years is a bloody poofter! I let you be around my kids. I let you into my home!’

  ‘The sergeant gave you that home, George,’ Matthew pointed out quietly.

  ‘Shut up, you!’ George spat at him.

  ‘Oi now,’ Jonah soothed. ‘Let’s not have raised voices. Alright?’

  George stared off to the side moodily.

  ‘Alright, George?’ Jonah tried again, more sternly this time.

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, alright.’ George ran a hand through his hair in agitation. Matthew suddenly recalled how attractive he’d thought the young constable on first meeting. That seemed an age ago. To his eyes now, George’s features looked pinched and mean.

  George sighed into the tense silence and stood up straighter. ‘Sarg. I could arrest you. You as well, Father. Suspicion of Gross Indecency.’ He looked at them both but didn’t quite meet either of their gazes.

  ‘You won’t, George,’ said Jonah. ‘Because you’ve got nothing. A coupla mates bunking in together while they’re away on business, that’s all. And yeah, we didn’t get on the fucking train we should’ve. Maybe we was enjoying our holiday a little too much and decided to hang on another day or two. Being a lil’ irresponsible and kickin’ up yer heels isn’t a crime.’

  George lifted his chin. ‘So you’ll have no probs with me having a squizz at your room, then?’

  Jonah shrugged. ‘It’s a bit of a mess, but knock yerself out.’

  ‘Fine.’ George immediately snatched up his helmet from the table and opened the door. ‘What number?’ he asked over his shoulder, striding towards the staircase immediately.

  ‘Three,’ Jonah said without hesitation. Matthew tried to meet his eye, wanting to silently beg him not to allow this.

  Jonah glanced into the public bar as they passed the door to it. Inside, Myrtle Holland gave him a small wave. Matthew trailed miserably after the two troopers as they stomped up the stairs.

  At the door to room three, George stood aside only long enough for Jonah to turn the key in the lock, then resumed his place at the vanguard and pushed into the sanctuary Matthew and Jonah had so enjoyed these past days.

  George sized the room up quickly, gaze flitting over all the contents and furniture. Jonah stood a pace behind him, awaiting his verdict. Behind them both, Matthew craned to see what George was seeing. He contained his amazement, but relief flooded through him like the tide. Both beds appeared slept in, and there were no incriminating items such as soiled towels or jars of suspicion to be seen.

  Matthew poked Jonah in the ribs. ‘How?’ he mouthed silently.

  ‘Myrtle,’ Jonah mouthed back, his expression not giving anything else away.

  ‘Clever,’ said George, and Matthew and Jonah both snapped their gazes back to him as he turned around. ‘Right. Well.’ George moved his helmet from one crooked elbow to the other, looking slightly less sure than he had several minutes ago. ‘I didn’t really want it to come to this, Sarg, but I need to tell you. I inspected the rectory at All Souls on the weekend.’

  Jonah’s temper flared so quickly it was almost visible. ‘You mean ya broke in? Ya can’t do that, George! It’s not admissible! And Matthew’s not a suspect for anything! He’s not charged or under caution, so you had no right—’

  ‘I do suspect him of something though, don’t I?’

  Matthew wondered how much control it took Jonah to not throw a punch right then.

  ‘Ya still can’t just break into people’s homes and poke about,’ Jonah reiterated. ‘It’s not right. We don’t have that power.’

  ‘Didn’t have to break in anyhow,’ George said glibly. ‘He leaves his door unlocked.’

  ‘Don’t be a clever-dick,’ Jonah warned him. ‘Y’know that’s not the issue.’ He sighed. ‘So come on, then, tell us what ya found! A great pile of nothin’, I’ll bet.’

  George ducked his head briefly. ‘Vi’d been in already. Place was bloody spotless.’

  God bless Mrs Sutherland, Matthew prayed silently.

  ‘Except,’ continued George, and it was evident he was enjoying watching them squirm by that point, ‘some flakes of rolling tobacco under the bed. Your brand, if I’m not mistaken, Sarg.’

  Jonah’s composure looked set to crack.

  ‘I took up smoking,’ Matthew blurted out.

  Both policemen looked at him, surprise written all over them. Matthew was surprised himself, that such bald-faced lying could trip so easily from his tongue. It was a skill well learnt, he supposed, if he and Jonah were to make a success of their new life.

  ‘Since when?’ asked George, voice heavy with suspicion. ‘I’ve never seen you do it.’

  ‘No,’ said Matthew. ‘You wouldn’t have. I only do it in private. Didn’t quite seem the type of thing I felt a young vicar should be seen doing in public. I only started recently.’

  Again, George’s eyes narrowed. ‘And you just happened to choose the same brand as the Sarg?’

  ‘Well, yes.’ Matthew tried to sound as forthright as possible. ‘I rather liked the aroma of it, those times we’ve drunk together. It seemed the obvious choice for me to try.’

  ‘Alright.’ George held his right hand out towards Jonah. ‘Sarg? Can I see your gear?’

  Jonah didn’t look enthused, but nevertheless reached into a suit pocket and removed his tin of tobacco, rolling papers and match book.

  Matthew watched George take the paraphernalia from Jonah.

  ‘Here you are, Father,’ George offered. ‘Roll us one.’

  ‘You don’t have to, Matthew,’ Jonah said right away. ‘He can’t make ya do anything.’

  ‘If you can roll a decent one—’ George smiled unkindly at Matthew, ‘—I’ll let all this go.’

  Matthew’s heart fell as he looked at the items on George’s hand.

  ‘As Sarg says,’ George needled, ‘extending your little holiday is irresponsible, not criminal, and I can’t prove what I reckon I know about youse any other way. I thought Sarg’s baccy around your bed was my
trump card.’ His smile turned predatory. ‘Prove me wrong.’

  Matthew could see no way out of it. He’d told the lie, now he had to back it up. Their happiness, their freedom, their very lives, to put a fine point on it, depended on his ability to see his dishonesty through. He took the proffered accoutrements from George.

  Close by, Jonah crossed his arms over his chest, perhaps to hide jittery fingers.

  ‘I’m by no means an expert, I can tell you,’ Matthew said lightly, opening the tin of tobacco and willing his own fingers not to jitter. ‘It was hours of frustration first time I tried!’ He flipped open the packet of papers and plucked one sheet free. Then he delved a thumb and forefinger into the tobacco and a strange thought came to him.

  He could do this.

  Countless times, in pubs, in bed, at the footy oval, in the saddle, Matthew had observed Jonah performing this ritual. He hadn’t realised he’d taken much notice of the actions. But thank the Lord he had. Yes, indeed. Thank Him. Had he not picked up this trick, his defensive lie would be found out immediately, and the only other explanation for a sprig of this tobacco being found by his bed would be the damnable truth.

  Matthew licked along the paper’s upper edge and proceeded to gently roll the whole thing together. A perfect impersonation of the man he’d watched so many times. All that gazing at Jonah had paid off.

  There was maybe a little too much protrusion of leaf evident in the finished result, but Matthew could tell from the looks on the policemen’s faces that he had passed the test. Schooling his features, he did not allow his elation or relief to show.

  ‘Satisfactory, Constable?’ Matthew held his trial aloft for inspection then set it on the table.

  George looked at the rollie with open contempt. ‘You canny prick,’ he said lowly.

  ‘Ya said that’d be it, George,’ Jonah cautioned. ‘Yer so-called trump card’s a bust. Give this all away now.’