by Stephen Orr
‘What?’
He started circling. ‘People say she’s loopy.’
‘She is not. You take that back.’
Andrew laughed. ‘Okay, I take it back . . . Quasimodo.’
I filled with fury. Before I knew what I was doing I’d picked up a lemon and thrown it at him. It flew through the air in a perfect parabola and hit him on the temple. As anger turned to dread I watched as he tumbled from his bike, rolled a few times across the road and then tried to sit up. He held his bleeding temple and fell back on the road. Then he sat up, groggy, trying to work out where he was and what had happened. He looked at me and remembered. ‘You’re dead, Page.’
He got back on his bike and rode off down the street, all the time holding his head in his hands.
I knew I should’ve been happy, but I wasn’t. Maybe if Janice was there, we would’ve been celebrating, but I didn’t even have a witness. What a waste. Still, I couldn’t help but smile. I’d had a small victory. All at once I was riding a horse, cantering between Frederick the Great and Napoleon, to the martial strains of Schubert, through a field of slaughtered soldiers. And all I could think of was, Bugger, I hope Dad doesn’t find out.
I unplugged the extension cords and packed up my Nippergram. Then I took the sign and the bottles inside and retreated to the safety of my room and my unfinished Stuka.
But it didn’t do me much good. There I was, after tea, standing on the front porch next to Dad, opposite Andrew (done up with a bandage around his head) and his dad.
‘Yes,’ I said, coming clean, ‘I did throw the lemon, but I was provoked.’
‘Was not,’ Andrew countered.
‘Was.’
Andrew’s dad was a big man. He wore a blue shirt with the sleeves torn off just below the shoulders and his skin was the colour of someone who worked outdoors. He had a tattoo of a woman with the name Ruby on an unfurling scroll, and I was dying to tell Dad that Andrew’s mum’s name was Susan. He wore too-tight shorts that strangled his steel-girder legs and a pair of thongs that had worn paper-thin. He looked at his son and said, ‘Well, what did you say?’
‘Nothin’.’
And then he whacked him across the back of the head. ‘What did you say?’
‘Asked him about his lemonade.’
‘What lemonade?’
‘He was sellin’ it, up there,’ he replied, pointing.
‘You weren’t just asking,’ I said, looking at Andrew.
‘Was.’
‘Weren’t.’
Andrew’s dad’s face tightened. He turned his body to face his son. ‘What did you say?’
Andrew shrugged. ‘Nothin’.’
He grabbed his son by the arm and shook him. ‘What?’ He lifted his hand to the boy and Dad stepped forward. ‘Listen, whatever was said, it doesn’t matter. Henry shouldn’t have thrown the lemon, should you?’
Everyone looked at me.
‘No.’
‘And he won’t do it again, will you?’
‘No.’
‘And what are you going to say to Andrew?’
I hesitated. ‘He said things about Mum.’
Dad was taken aback. He paused but then eventually repeated, ‘What are you going to say to Andrew?’
‘Sorry.’
Dad pointed to Andrew’s bandaged head. ‘There’s an artery there, the main one to the brain. A bit harder, or a bit further over . . .’ He stared at me. I sighed. ‘Sorry, Andrew.’
And then Dad looked at Andrew’s father. ‘It won’t happen again,’ he said.
I looked up at Dad. Was he scared of him, or just too nice for his own good? What about the shoplifting? No, nothing. Is that why he hadn’t gone to their house? Was Dad all words and procedures? I thought he stood up to people like this – waved his finger in their face and told them to shut up and sit down, and when they turned violent, wrestled them to the ground and put the cuffs on. No, none of that. More Mahatma Gandhi than Rod Cameron. And why hadn’t he asked what had been said about Mum? His own wife? All of this as I stood in the setting sun on our front verandah apologising to a kid who’d made my life hell for years.
‘You can go to your room, Henry,’ Dad said.
My heart sank. I could see Andrew smiling. ‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Now.’
If this was the law, then I didn’t want to be a detective. But maybe, I mused, as I sat in my room afterwards, this was something different. Neighbourhood law: a law of compromise and overlooked things (like Bill’s shed); a law of dented fenders and bruised temples; a law of let’s sort it out for ourselves, even if it isn’t always entirely fair.
With the last few rays of sun, Dad came into my room and sat beside me on the floor. His knees cracked as he slid down the side of my bed and loosened his tie. Then he held out his hand and said, ‘Can I have a go?’
Without looking at him I handed him the brush and he picked up the Stuka. He started painting inside the lines I’d drawn on the wing. ‘So?’ he said.
I didn’t reply.
‘Where are the bombs?’
I shrugged.
‘He might need them.’
‘I stuck them together wrong.’
‘Ah . . . what did he say to you?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘What did he say about Mum?’
I was silent.
‘Henry?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘I made that up.’
Dad wasn’t so sure. ‘No you didn’t.’
‘I did,’ I shot back.
‘Why would you say that?’
I lifted my head and almost shouted at him. ‘Why would you send me to my room? Without asking? Without finding out what happened? I thought you were a detective.’
He painted in silence for a full minute. Eventually I looked at him and said, ‘You told Mister Eckert you’d talk to him. You could’ve then.’
‘There’s a time and place for everything.’
‘Cos he was a big fella.’
‘No, Henry. The issue was the lemon. You bring in other things and it becomes confused. I’ll talk to him.’
I reclaimed my Stuka and continued painting. ‘That wasn’t fair,’ I muttered.
‘I know,’ he agreed.
‘You should hear the things Andrew’s said to me, and to Janice, and the little ones.’
‘It’s just how things work.’
‘Why?’
‘You threw the lemon.’
And that’s where it ended, Dad standing, his knees cracking again, wiping his hands on his pants and leaving my room.
I woke up the next morning with voices through my window. A couple of old girls stood on the footpath gasbagging. ‘Even the cold tap’s hot,’ one said.
‘Yes, but you run it.’
‘The weather forecasters don’t know. Last night they said it wouldn’t crack eighty, this morning they reckon a hundred. If they want someone to guess, I can do that. What about their radars and balloons?’
Voices mixing with wisteria, blowing in on a warm, gentle breeze, as the thud of over-ripe peaches hitting the ground in Kazz Houseman’s yard welcomed another day. Hot water from the cold tap. The streets busy as people rushed to and from shops before it got too hot. And the sound of a small truck pulling up outside our house. I looked out to see the two women watching a man in overalls unloading a box. ‘Morning, ladies,’ he said to them, struggling.
‘Good morning,’ they replied, softly, slowly, as though he was taking a liberty.
I joined Mum, still in her nightie and dressing gown, standing at the front door. ‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘An air-conditioner,’ she replied.
‘For my room?’
‘Hardly. The lounge.’
She used a phone book to prop open the door as the man in overalls trudged up our driveway. ‘Thanks, love,’ he said, entering. ‘Which room?�
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‘Here.’
He went into our lounge room and lowered the box onto the floor. Then he turned around and smiled at us. ‘Which window?’
‘Christ,’ I muttered, recognising the man’s face, and they both looked at me.
‘Pardon?’ Mum said.
‘Nothing.’
‘That one,’ she continued, pointing, holding her dressing gown closed.
There was no doubt about it. It was Heinrich Himmler. Andrew Arthurson was right, he installs air-conditioners. His face was chubby, his hair shaved up the sides, he wore wire-framed specs and had the small, piercing, owl-like eyes that Janice had described. As he started undoing the box, he said, ‘This should come as a great relief.’
Mum smiled. ‘I’ve been at Bob for years.’
‘You won’t know yourselves.’
He didn’t sound very German. He didn’t look very German. At that moment it was a bit hard to imagine the head of the SS standing in my lounge installing a Kelvinator.
‘Hottest summer since nineteen thirty-nine,’ he said. ‘That was a stinker. Remember?’
Still, if Janice was right, it could all be part of his cover. No. If this was Himmler then I was Hitler. Janice was delusional.
Slowly the man lifted the large grey machine out of its box and Mum almost gasped. ‘Oh, it’s beautiful,’ she said.
‘Two horsepower. Keep chugging till Judgement Day.’ He looked at me. ‘What y’ reckon, young fella?’
I was lost for words.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Henry.’
His face lit up. ‘Ah, another Henry, that’s my name: Henry Wright. Glad to make your acquaintance.’ He held out his hand. I shook it, looking for the telltale SS ring that Janice had described. Nothing but calluses. His hand was big, hot and hairy. But it wasn’t as strong as it looked. He had a lightness of touch. Like cold water from a hot tap.
I couldn’t stand it. I ran to my room, ripped off my clothes and got dressed. Then I put on my socks and sandals and flew out the front door as fast as I could.
‘Where are you going?’ Mum called.
‘Nowhere.’
I walked down Thomas Street and turned into Day Terrace, passing front yards full of dead grass, scattered toys and drooping hydrangeas, trying to remember where Mariel Johns lived.
This is it, I thought, opening a gate and approaching the front door. I knocked. The door slowly opened and there was Janice, standing in front of Kevin Johns, Mariel’s dad. ‘Hello, Janice,’ I said. ‘Hello, Mister Johns.’
Janice turned to him. ‘This is my friend, Henry.’
‘Hello, Henry,’ he said, quietly. He stood with his hands on Janice’s shoulders, gently massaging them. ‘Where’s Mariel?’ I asked.
‘She’s still in bed,’ Janice replied.
I couldn’t wait any longer. ‘You’ve gotta see this,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Himmler.’
‘Where?’
‘My house.’
‘Wow.’ She turned to Mariel’s dad. ‘Can you tell Mariel I had to go? I’ll see her tomorrow.’
He smiled. ‘I’ll tell her.’
Janice disappeared back up the dark hallway and Kevin Johns came out to talk to me. ‘Himmler?’ he asked.
I shrugged. ‘Janice gets some strange ideas.’
He smiled and just stared at me for ten or twenty seconds. Then Janice came back out with her bag. ‘See you, Mister Johns.’
‘See you, Janice.’
Janice walked ahead of me and I struggled to keep up. ‘What were you doing?’ I asked.
‘Where?’
‘With Mariel’s dad?’
She paused to think and then said, ‘He made me breakfast. Why’s Himmler at your house?’
‘He’s installing an air-conditioner.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘He is. Hey, I threw a lemon at Andrew. Got him in the head.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘I did. You ask my dad.’
‘You’re a dreamer, Page.’
I struggled to get in front of her. ‘You can talk. At least I don’t think – ’
‘Is that his truck?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’
She stopped to inspect it. ‘Never seen a truck at his place.’
‘Prob’ly a work truck.’
She climbed onto the running board and looked inside the cab. ‘Receipts, pipes, a bottle of lemonade. I’d have to do a more thorough search.’
‘It’s not Himmler,’ I said.
‘How do you know?’
‘He lived here in nineteen thirty-nine.’
She hopped down and scowled at me. ‘That’s what he says.’
‘I had to look after Anna and Gavin.’
‘Let’s go.’
We went inside. We stood watching as the man struggled to get the box into the window frame. ‘This is Janice Riley,’ my mother said.
He turned and winked at her. She looked at me and her mouth dropped open. I shook my head.
‘It is,’ she whispered.
‘Is what?’ Mum asked.
But Henry the elder was looking back at Janice. ‘Riley . . . Riley . . . you’re not Bill’s girl?’
Janice nodded, slowly.
‘Ah, I used to work with him at Bennett’s. Haven’t seen him for years. Be sure to say hello.’
‘Janice lives next door,’ Mum offered.
‘Yeah . . . must be, fifteen years. Must pop in and say hello.’
And then he picked up a drill and started screwing the frame in place. I looked at Janice and smiled. She screwed up her nose and then said out loud, ‘You look like Heinrich Himmler.’
Henry Wright laughed. ‘People say that. All I need’s a mo and I’ll be set, eh? Sieg heil!’
He managed a Hitler salute with his free hand. Then he turned and looked at us and said, ‘Although, you never know . . . I’m just about the right age.’
Chapter Five
A few days later we set off for Goolwa for our annual do-nothing holiday in the sun. Dad had worked late so it was nearly dark when we arrived at the caravan park. The Rileys were already there, settled into a pop-top CaraRest home away from home. They’d already been swimming, their towels hung out to dry on rails that ran the length of their van; they’d already covered the floor in sand, and Liz had already swept it out several times; they’d already burnt their faces brown and red and cut their feet on glass in the dunes; they’d already played three rounds of mini-golf and found a crab the size of a penny under rocks in the tidal zone.
Vans. Sort of. The Rileys had done better. Ours was stumped. The tyres were flat, cracked, discoloured, pissed on by a thousand visiting dogs. Only two of the windows opened and the pop-top roof was propped up with a couple of old forks. All of the beds dipped in the middle, which Dad said made it easier for reading at night. The mattresses were threadbare and foam spilt out the side of mine like a mortar wound. ‘It was cheap,’ Mum explained, as she wiped cobwebs and mouse shit out of the cupboards. ‘Just somewhere to lay your head, eh?’
Dad just raised his eyebrows, closed his mouth and smiled strangely. This was his I-won’t-say-what-I’m-thinking expression.
But Mum was right. I was soon in the Rileys’ van and then we were all off, exploring. We took Bill’s rod down to the river and tried to cast off. Janice was first, landing the sinker in the reeds. A tall, blond boy of about thirteen, kitted out with his own rod and box of hooks and sinkers, edged his way over to us and said, ‘You’ll have to throw it in the middle.’
‘I know,’ Janice replied, indignantly, trying to reel in her line, by now firmly lodged in the reeds.
The boy handed me his rod and took Janice’s. With a few tugs he had it free. He cast off into the middle of the river, looked at Janice, smiled and returned the rod. ‘What you using for bait?’
‘A sausage.’
‘A sausage?’
‘We had a barbecue.’
&nb
sp; ‘Want some corn?’
‘Reckon they’d rather a sausage.’
The boy smiled. ‘Suit yourself.’
It was nearly dark, but that meant nothing to the caravan kids. They were still out everywhere, riding around on bikes parents had just managed to cram into boots of old Holdens. The caravan kids wore over-tight shorts and bathers and were brown. After a few days on hot sand, gravel and hard bitumen roads their soles had hardened. They’d forgotten the rules of civilisation. Visiting was allowed anywhere, anytime. Bedtime was whenever dads ran out of beer. Clothes were worn for days and showers were unheard of. And it was the same for parents. The kids were off somewhere, no point worrying where. No one had to watch their language or avoid farting in mixed company. Men could be seen with their shirts off: as it turned out, no one’s body was worse than anyone else’s. Dishes were left to pile up in sinks and dirty clothes soon formed small mountains in the corner of vans.
It was a village, and people had become primitive, and liked it.
With the last gasp of daylight the fathers approached us. ‘Mum says it’s time to go in,’ Dad explained, swigging a beer and handing it to Bill.
‘No thanks,’ Bill replied, looking out across the still, grey-green water and smiling; thinking, perhaps, how he might keep things perfect for a while. ‘Now, you’re doin’ it all wrong, Janice,’ he said, reeling in the line and preparing to cast off. He looked at the boy beside us. ‘What yer usin’?’
‘Corn.’
‘Corn? What’s that for?’
‘Redfin.’
‘Fish eat corn?’
The boy lifted a bucket and showed us three redfin. Bill waved at him and whispered, ‘Corn my arse,’ and we all laughed. Then he cast off. The line flew through the air, hit a speed limit sign and fell into the reeds. We all broke up. Gavin rolled on the grass beside the river and Janice had to stop him from rolling into the water. The corn boy looked at Bill and smiled and Bill gave him a wave. ‘Hit it first go,’ he said. ‘Takes years of practise. Could you do that?’
The boy shook his head. ‘No.’
Bill reeled in the line and it became tangled in a ball the size of an apple. The boy looked over and said, ‘You’ll have to cut that off.’
‘I know,’ Bill replied. ‘I know what I’m doing.’
The boy only smiled.
‘I’ve been fishing since I was four,’ Bill told him. ‘Just a bad day.’
