Moth to the Flame

by Joy Dettman

  The smell of burning still hung in the air on the Friday of Vern Hooper’s funeral. No sound of axe or tractor that day; not a logging truck moving on the road. The mills stood silent for Vern.

  The shops closed their doors at three thirty, and a crowd gathered out front of the Methodist church. They were all there for Vern: every mill worker in town, every retired mill worker, and most of the tree fellers. News was exchanged while they waited for four o’clock.

  The town was abuzz with news: the fire — the Duffy boys most blamed for setting it; and the closure of Vern’s mill. The place hadn’t been updated since the war; much of the equipment was antiquated. Six weeks before Vern was flattened by his final stroke, Mervyn Martin, one of the mill hands, had lost half of his right hand. A month later, the mill boss received notice that Vern was getting out of the sawmilling game. Vern’s accountant had driven up yesterday to pay off the last of the crew, and to hand out large bonuses to those who had been with him for years.

  ‘Say what you like about him, he was a decent old bastard.’

  ‘A hard boss but a fair man was old Vern.’

  ‘As long as you knew he was the boss.’

  George Macdonald had upgraded his mill in ’51, doubling its size and output. He’d taken on three of Vern’s men. Davies’s bush-mill equipment was pre-pre-war, but he took on two more men, and had his eye on some of Vern’s better equipment. Simpson, who had got Mick Boyle’s mill up and running during the war years, took on two workers and sacked one useless city bugger.

  The city chap who rented Vern’s house was at the church, more concerned about losing the house than losing his landlord. He’d been made aware of the situation with that house before signing the lease, and with Vern dead, the house went to his son, who may not want to renew the lease.

  ‘There’ll be a few empty houses up here in a week or two. Billy Dobson is packing it in,’ someone said.

  Billy and his wife were heading for the city. Billy’s brother, already down there, building Holden cars, said the work was no more repetitive and a damn sight less dangerous than mill work, and with overtime a man could make a fortune.

  ‘We’re losing too many of the young chaps to the city. This town will die without its young blood,’ the old men said.

  Another of the young married chaps who had served his time in the war had got a loan through the RSL to build in Willama. He was working at the cannery. They had a butter factory down there, a flour mill. Willama offered choices. They had a high school, a technical school. Nothing up here. Nothing but mills and a few jobs farm labouring.

  *

  Gertrude watched that coffin carried into church, a rough-made red gum, which was something of a dying tradition, only offered now to the old blokes, to the most honoured amongst the old blokes. Back when Moe Kelly had planted the dead, most of the mill men had been buried in red gum.

  The Hooper family must have entered through a rear door. They were already seated in a front pew when Gertrude found a seat in the back row. No one had sighted Margaret since ’47. She created a lot of interest. Not so Lorna. They’d seen her at old Mick Boyle’s funeral. There were three chaps sitting with the girls; one would be Ian, Howard Hooper’s son. He had the look of a Hooper about him, though not the height. The old chap was Vern’s accountant. It was the third of them, a grey-headed chap, Gertrude couldn’t identify. No sign of Jim. She’d hoped to have a word to him.

  The service wasn’t long. At four thirty, eight strong men carried Vern out, Lorna walking behind the coffin, Margaret behind her, blubbering on her cousin, the accountant and the grey-headed chap following them — grey headed and walking with a limp.

  It was Jim, lean, pale, his hair silver grey. She tried to catch his eye, but he didn’t look left or right.

  Half of the town and most of their kids were outside to see Vern carried between two long lines of mill men who had formed a guard of honour, suited mill men, but each one holding an axe high and giving him a last ‘Hooray’. It moved Gertrude. Vern would have enjoyed their axe salute.

  He would have enjoyed his last ride on Mick Boyle’s dray. An aging Clydesdale took him on a sedate tour of the town, the Hooper cars following behind him, the cousin driving the girls and Jim. Always a driver, Jim. He’d been driving since he was twelve years old. Not today.

  Someone must have been down at Vern’s mill. His mill hooter started up, a terrible, mournful sound, a swan calling for its dead mate, and that hooter more meaningful to Gertrude than the parson’s words. It got her tears flowing, which annoyed her. After what he’d done, he didn’t deserve her tears. Damn them, and damn her for the fool of a stupid old woman that she was becoming.

  The hooter was still going when the dray turned out of Cemetery Road, a trail of cars now following it.

  There was a time when folk had walked behind the coffin. Gertrude walked, needing that time alone to gather herself for the final goodbye.

  She shed a tear or two more when the hooter silenced, when they dropped Vern deep into the earth. Then Simpson’s hooter started up: a hard-on-the-ears siren; ten seconds later Macdonald’s, a high-pitched howl joined in. Folk plugged their ear canals with fingers as they walked away. Gertrude plugged her own and looked around for Jim. He was surrounded.

  Hot, his back, his head. Jim rubbed his head, felt the prickle of too short hair. It offered no protection from the sun.

  Lorna had ordered he be made viable for the day. They’d been charging his batteries again, coming for him while he was still half asleep, crucifying him on a table, even to the crown of thorns, metal thorns. They’d been swapping his upper denture for a long-handled rubber mouthguard, then flicking the switch.

  He could remember the night electricity was turned on in this town, how it had lit Woody Creek up like a Christmas tree. That’s how he saw himself, strapped down and glowing — imagined seeing himself. He saw nothing. Had no memory of it afterwards, other than the taste of rubber and the smell of overheated cogs.

  It made him pliable, if not viable. For a few days he became a blank white page anyone could write on. He felt smoothed out, his agony smoothed out, made wearable, bearable. At times he even got to see the world in colour.

  Today was in colour. The greens looked greener, the flowers on the coffin looked like the bouquet of roses he’d given to Jen. The last rose of summer ...

  A lot of dark suits here. Too hot for a dark suit. He’d been halfway up here today before he’d known he was wearing a suit. He’d been sitting in the church before he’d realised why he was wearing it.

  Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

  Someone must have told him his father was dead, that they were taking him back to Woody Creek. He might remember them telling him tomorrow, or the next day. His battery only held a charge for a few days. Too many wheels and cogs inside his head that never stopped turning.

  He’d been to a lot of funerals, watched a lot of good men go into those holes. He’d dug the holes — back when he’d had two legs.

  He’d known this town too — back when he’d had two legs, known all of those faces.

  He’d known that fat woman coming at him, trying to kiss him. Too short. He held his precarious balance and shook her hand. Knew who she was. Knew it as well as he knew his own name. Tomorrow he might remember her name — if he bothered to remembered today.

  She had enough fat on her to have survived over there for a thousand days. The bloke with her would have survived on his gut for as long. Jim flexed his hand and wondering what that bloke might look like whittled down to skin and bone. Then someone else offered his hand. Jim took it, shook it like a man. His father might have been proud of him . . . had he not been the reason for the shaking of hands.

  He couldn’t feel his father’s death. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe not. Maybe he’d miss him tomorrow. Maybe not. The hole was deep enough.

  The holes he’d dug over there hadn’t been so deep. No coffins over there. No shrouds to waste on dead men. Died like flies. Here today
and gone tomorrow. The yabbering little yellow bastards had cut their numbers down. Couldn’t feed their own army. Hadn’t tried to feed their prisoners. Cut the heads off a few to cut them down to size. He hadn’t lost his head, only his leg.

  A tall skinny bloke with a mop of carrot hair taking his hand, pumping it. Knew him. Remembered him. Cards, playing cards.

  He mentioned Jimmy. ‘We thought you might have brought him up to your dad’s funeral, Jim.’

  Funerals were no place for kids. Funerals give kids nightmares. He’d stood amongst these same tombstones when they dropped his mother down that dark hole, then they sent him back to his school masters.

  School. Up here. Miss Rose. Miss Rose had red hair. He searched for red, for the one name he could put his tongue to.

  Not here.

  Jen wasn’t here. He never forgot her name. When he woke up with the taste of rubber in his mouth and wet pyjamas, he searched his smoking cogs until he found her name hiding in there beside his own. Jen and Jim.

  She’d married someone he’d gone to school with. He’d known his name yesterday, or the day before.

  That was the worst of their blank page. No names written on it. They always came back, with that crumpled-up agony.

  Dry throat. Burning head, the sun setting fire to the back of his jacket.

  There was a river up here. Plenty of water up here. No, not a river, never been big enough to be a river. A creek, marking the boundary line of . . . that house with mushrooms growing in the dining room. He could see it, smell that clump of indoor mushrooms. Whose house? He knew. Always had.

  He’d remember that name tomorrow — if he remembered the mushrooms — if he wanted to remember them tomorrow.

  An old chap, his arm in a sling, apologising for not shaking his hand, shaking it with his unbandage hand.

  Jim stared at the bandage. They would have killed for those white bandages over there. They’d had nothing. Blood and guts, dysentery and suppuration, bags of bones buried in shallow graves . . .

  ‘Good to see you, Jim,’ a youngish woman said.

  People, tall, short, old, young, big hands, small hands. He shook them, and his hand ached and his arm ached and his head burned.

  ‘I’ll see you around at the pub,’ a stocky bloke said.

  He’d been to school with him! Built like Nobby, all chest and not a lot of height. Lucky Nobby, bought a ticket home by a lucky shot though the knee. Not so lucky Paddy. Blown to bits. Bull? What happened to Bull?

  ‘We’re leaving now, Jim.’

  Ian, his cousin. His name, the Hooper name was welded into the cogs. Always around, always had been, would be. Ian and Margaret. They came, at two, on Sundays. Lorna didn’t come on Sundays. His father hadn’t come.

  Where’s your pride, boy?

  Over there with my leg, Pops.

  He’d been pleased to see him, at that other hospital, back when he’d had two legs and no teeth. Ian and Margaret, hospital visitors way back then . . .

  And Sissy. Sissy Morrison. They’d brought her in to sit beside his bed when he’d . . . he’d smashed his father’s car, knocked his teeth out — coming home from Monk’s!

  Monk’s house! It was Monk’s house that had the mushrooms growing beside the wall in the dining room. Monk’s cellar, cool on days like this. Always cool.

  I’ve loved you since I was four years old

  ‘Monk’s,’ Jim said.

  ‘I think the girls want to get going, Jim. I doubt they’ll agree to going out there.’

  ‘Are they still up here?’

  ‘The Monks. Not for years. Your father bought their land.’

  ‘Jen and Jimmy,’ he said.

  ‘Bernard is looking after Jimmy today.’

  Bernard. That’s who she’d married, who he’d been at school with . . . Bernard, Bernard . . . Bernie Macdonald! Bernie and Macka Macdonald! That stocky bloke.

  See you around at the pub.

  No. No. She’d got the train out of town the night before they could tie her up to him. Left him standing at the altar and gone to Melbourne.

  ‘Where’s Bernard?’ Jim asked.

  ‘He’s at home, dear. Come along,’ Margaret said. ‘It’s been a long day for all of us.’

  ‘Are we dropping by the hotel?’ Ian asked. He was wearing a suit. He was hot.

  ‘Lorna won’t go there. We’ll have a cup of tea in Willama,’ Margaret said. ‘What an atrocious day it’s been. I do hope it’s cooler in Melbourne.’

  ‘Are you going around to the wake, Mrs Foote?’ Maisy asked.

  Gertrude shook her head.

  ‘They did him proud.’

  ‘He would have been pleased with the last of it.’

  ‘They didn’t bring Jimmy?’ Maisy said.

  Gertrude didn’t bother replying to that. She’d known that little boy’s future the day Vern had set eyes on those miniature double-jointed thumbs. Play your cards right, she’d told Jenny when she’d brought Jimmy home from Sydney. She’d played them wrong.

  She glanced towards the crowd still clustered around the Hoopers, saw the back of Lorna’s head. Didn’t want to see the front of that woman. No sign of Margaret. She’d be in the centre of the crush. Didn’t want to see her either. She could have given Maisy a call to let her know Vern was dying.

  ‘I would have got down there somehow to say goodbye,’ Gertrude said, to Maisy or to herself.

  ‘He wouldn’t have known you, Mrs Foote.’

  ‘He would have known me. I’ll walk home, love. It will do me good.’

  Maisy had driven her into town. She drove her home and turned her motor off when they got there.

  ‘What does she plan to do about Ray, Mrs Foote?’

  ‘Thanks for your help today.’ Gertrude was out.

  ‘If they’re back together, with Vern dead she might have some chance of getting Jimmy back.’

  Gertrude didn’t reply. That little boy wouldn’t come back, maybe wouldn’t want to come back.

  ‘Thanks again, love.’

  WORM IN THE APPLE

  Ray had stood with Davies’s men in that guard of honour holding his axe. He went to the wake. The beer free until closing time, the bar was packed solid, Freddy Bowen, the publican, his wife and son, run off their feet. The mill workers guard of honour had been a custom for years, as was raising a glass to a fallen workmate. Somewhere along the line it had become the custom for the mill boss to shout that beer. Vern, long-term mill man and boss, was paying today, and never a man to do anything by half-measure.

  A few in town believed February’s stifling temperatures had dictated the late hour of Vern’s funeral. It had nothing to do with the weather. Lorna and Vern’s accountant had chosen the time. A town full of mill workers could put away a lot of beer in an hour.

  Suit-clad mill workers stood elbow to elbow with the mayor, the bank manager and town toffs today, most of those toffs farmers. They were Woody Creek’s new elite. They sent their kids to boarding schools; their wives bought their fancy suits and hats in Melbourne.

  Ray King’s dark grey wedding suit had been purchased in Melbourne. It was well cut. He wore it well. A few from out of town eyed him, wondering who he was, most of them women.

  No woman in the bar, but their voices infiltrated. The backside of the bar opened into the dining room, and from Ray’s vantage point he saw tables piled with cakes and sandwiches, fancy-clad farmers’ wives rubbing elbows with mill wives — or not quite rubbing elbows. The toffs’ wives had taken over the far corner, forming their own clique. There must have been four-dozen women in there, plus a handful of the town wowsers drinking tea. The barroom hum of massed male humanity didn’t compete well with the higher-pitched female voices. And they were still arriving with their plates of cakes. Each time the passage door opened, there was expectation on a few faces — still hoping one of the Hoopers would put in an appearance.

  They’d be well out of town by now. At times, Ray considered getting on his bike and riding away. He had n
o place in this town, wasn’t wanted here, wasn’t needed here. He needed them, or his kids needed Jenny.

  Glass in his left hand, he looked towards the Macdonald pack. George was no drinker. The town joke, George Macdonald, he ordered pots of raspberry cordial. Built like an ape, he must have been close to Vern’s age, but still fronted up at his mill each day. Hands on him like stunted mallee roots, worn that way by raw timber. He hadn’t been born to the timber game.

  Ray had. Son of Big Henry King, he had brawn, thick wrists, ham hands — not yet seasoned by timber. If he hung around long enough, they’d get seasoned — if Jenny let him hang around long enough. That’s what he’d done at old Phoebe’s: just hung around and made himself useful until she’d stopped telling him to go.

  A dangerous trade, the timber industry: logs rolled, trees fell, branches snapped, saws cut where they weren’t supposed to cut. A few of the drinkers held pots with hands missing fingers. Compo paid by the knuckle. A thumb was worth a packet. A death on the job set the widow up for life. This town looked after widows and kids.

  Ray lifted his head as someone — Tom Palmer — called for glasses to be raised to one of the world’s gentlemen. Ray had been at school with Tom Palmer’s sons.

  ‘He and a few more carried this town through the depression,’ Tom said.

  They drank to Vern Hooper. Ray hadn’t been here through much of the depression, but he raised his glass along with the rest, raised it to the man who had brought around a load of sawdust to cover up Big Henry’s pool of blood.

  Seeing that red-gum coffin, hearing the parson preach, had stripped the years back today, had taken him back to Big Henry’s funeral. A different church — Big Henry had called himself a Catholic. Ray called himself a Catholic. Had tried to baptise his son a Catholic, but the priest wouldn’t do it. The Catholic Church didn’t recognise kids born of adultery.