I grinned. ‘Maybe I should. Although I wasn’t planning to say any more.’ I thought for a minute, and decided to take the plunge. I was nervous, but it was exciting. ‘All right, I’ll say what I think I think, but just remember, it’s not necessarily what I really think, because I don’t know what I think.’
He groaned. ‘Oh Ellie, you’re so frustrating. You haven’t even started and already you’re getting me churned up. This is the same as yesterday.’
‘Well do you want me to be honest or don’t you?’
‘All right, go on, and I’ll try to keep control of my blood pressure.’
‘OK.’ Having said that I wasn’t even sure of where to start. ‘Lee, I do like you, very much. I think you’re interesting, funny, smart, and you’ve got my favourite eyes in Wirrawee. I’m just not sure that I like you in that way, you know what I mean. That day in the hayshed, my feelings got the better of me. But there’s something about you, I don’t know what it is, but you make me nervous a little. I’ve never met anyone quite like you. And one thing I wonder is, suppose we started going round together, and it didn’t work out? Here we are, the seven of us, no, eight now, living in this out-of-the-way place in these really strange times, with the whole world turned upside down, yet we get on pretty well together – most of the time. I’d hate to spoil that by us two suddenly having a falling out and deciding we didn’t want to see each other, or we were embarrassed to be together. That’d be awful. It’d be like Adam and Eve having a fight in the Garden of Eden. I mean, who would they talk to then? The apple tree? The snake?’
‘Oh Ellie,’ Lee said. ‘Why do you have to reason everything through all the time? The future is the future. It has to take care of itself. You can sit here all day and make guesses about it, and at the end of the day, what have you got? A lot of dead guesses, that’s what. And in the meantime you haven’t done anything, you haven’t lived, because you’ve been so busy reasoning it all out.’
‘That’s not true,’ I said, getting annoyed. ‘The way we got the truck and rescued you, that was all done with reason. If we hadn’t figured out all the possibilities first, it never would have worked.’
‘But a lot of it you were just making up as you went along,’ he said. ‘I remember how you told me you changed the plan about something, the route you took I think it was. And there were lots of things, like slamming the brakes on to catch the car behind: that was you going with your gut feelings.’
‘So you think I should live life from the gut, not from the head?’
He laughed. ‘Not when you put it like that. I guess there’s a place for both. I’ll tell you what it’s like. It’s like my music.’ Lee was brilliant, Grade 6 piano already, the best for his age in Wirrawee. ‘When I’m learning a piece, or when I’m playing, I’ve got to have my heart and my mind involved. My mind is thinking about technique and my heart is feeling the passion of the music. So I suppose it’s the same as life. You’ve got to have both.’
‘And you think I’m all head and no heart?’
‘No! Stop twisting what I’m saying. But remember the guy who lived here. His heart must have gradually dried up, till it was like a little dried apricot, and all he had left was his reason. I hope it was a big consolation to him.’
‘So you do think I’m all head and no heart! You think I’ll end up in this little hut, the Hermitess from Hell, no friends, no one to love me. Excuse me, I’m going down the garden to eat worms.’
‘No, I just think that for some things, for example liking someone, for example liking me, you’re being too careful and calculating. You should just go with the feelings.’
‘But my feelings are that I’m confused,’ I said miserably.
‘That’s probably because your feelings are being confused by your mind. Your feelings might be coming through loud and clear, but before they get to the surface your brain gets in the way and muddles them around.’
‘So I’m a sort of TV that’s been put too close to a computer? I’m getting interference with my picture?’ I wasn’t sure if I believed all this or if it was just Lee spinning a line. Guys will say anything.
‘Yes!’ Lee said. ‘The question is, what programme’s showing on the TV? A debate on the meaning of life, or a passionate love story?’
‘I know what you’d like it to be,’ I said. ‘A porno starring us.’
He grinned. ‘How can I say I love you for your mind, after everything I’ve just said? But I do.’
It was the first time he’d used the word love, and it sobered me, a bit. This relationship could easily get serious. The trouble was, I was avoiding mentioning Homer, and one reason Lee couldn’t understand me was because he didn’t understand about Homer – although he’d had a guess, the day before. I think he’d have been less confused if I’d been more honest with him. But I knew about Homer, and I was still confused. I sighed, and got up.
‘Come on cripple, let’s go and look at the hut.’
This was my third trip to the hut, so it was losing interest for me a little. But Lee poked around for quite a while. There was more light in there this time; it probably all depended on the time of day, but there was some filtered sunlight that relieved the darkness along the back wall. Lee went to the hut’s only window, a glassless square in the back wall. He put his head through it and had a look at the mint outside, then investigated the rotting window frame.
‘Beautifully made,’ he said. ‘Look at these joints. Wait, there’s some metal here.’
‘How do you mean?’ I came up beside him as he started wrestling with the window sill. I could see then what he meant – the sill was rotting through, and between the decayed splinters a dull black metal surface was visible. Suddenly Lee lifted the sill straight off. It was clearly made to come away, for underneath was a geometrically neat cavity, not much bigger than a shoe box. And fitting neatly into it was a grey metal cashbox, about shoebox size.
‘Wow!’ I was astonished and excited. ‘Unreal! It’s probably full of gold.’
Lee, eyes staring, lifted it out.
‘It’s pretty light,’ he said. ‘Too light for gold.’
The box was showing the early signs of rust, with some red lines starting to creep along it, but it was in good condition. It was unlocked, and opened easily. Craning over Lee’s arm, I saw nothing but papers and photographs. It was disappointing, although as I realised later gold wasn’t much use to us, living our guerilla life up in the mountains. Lee lifted out the papers and the photos. Underneath them was a small blue case, like a wallet, but made of stiffer material and fastened with a small gold clasp. He opened that, carefully. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper and resting on white linen cloth, was a brightly coloured short wide ribbon, attached to a heavy bronze medal.
‘Fantastic,’ I breathed. ‘He was a war hero.’
Lee took it out. On the front was a relief of a king – I’m not sure which one – and the words ‘He who would valiant be’. Lee turned it over. On the back was engraved: ‘Bertram Christie, for gallantry, Battle of Marana’, and a date which was too blurred to read. The ribbon was coloured red, yellow and blue. We handled it, felt it, wondered over it, then wrapped it back up carefully and replaced it in its box before turning our attention to the papers.
There were a few of these: a notebook, a letter or two, some newspaper clippings and a couple of official looking documents. There were three photographs: one of a stern looking young couple on their wedding day, one of the woman alone, standing in front of a bare wooden house, and one of the woman with a toddler. The woman was young, but looked sad; she had long dark hair and a slim smooth face. She might have been Spanish. I looked at the photos intently.
‘These must be the ones he murdered,’ I whispered.
‘Funny that he kept their photos if he murdered them,’ Lee said.
I looked at the face of the man in the wedding photo. He looked young, younger than the woman maybe. He gazed steadily at the camera, clear strong eyes and a firm clean-shaven chin.
I could see nothing of the murderer in his face and nothing of the victim in his wife’s or child’s.
Lee started opening the documents. The first seemed to be a newspaper account of a sermon. I only read the first paragraph. The sermon was based on a verse from the Bible, ‘A fool’s mouth is his ruin, and his lips are a snare to himself’. It looked long and boring, so I didn’t read any more. The other newspaper clipping was a short article that was headlined ‘Victims of Mt Tumbler Tragedy Laid to Rest’. It read:
A small group of mourners were in attendance at the Mt Tumbler Church of England on Monday last, where Revd Horace Green conducted a service for Burial of the Dead. Laid to rest were Imogen Mary Christie, of Mt Tumbler, and her infant child Alfred Bertram Christie, aged three.
The Christie family were not well known, being newly arrived, living a goodly distance from town, and being apparently of reclusive disposition, but the tragedy has aroused considerable sentiment in the district, which was touched on most feelingly by Revd Green in his address, which had for its text ‘Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live and is full of misery; he cometh up and is cut down like a flower’.
The deceased were then interred in the Mt Tumbler cemetery.
A public meeting will be held in the Mt Tumbler School of Arts on Monday next, under the chairmanship of Mr Donald McDonald, JP, to canvass again the possibility of obtaining the services of a medical practitioner for the Mt Tumbler district. The Christie tragedy has led to fresh agitation for the provision of medical services for the area.
An inquest into the deaths of Mrs Christie and her child will take place at the next visit of the magistrate to the district, on April 15. In the meantime Constable Whykes has cautioned against idle tongues making loose speculation upon the facts of the case; a sentiment most earnestly shared by this correspondent.
That was all. I read it over Lee’s shoulder. ‘It seems to raise more questions than it answers,’ I said.
‘Doesn’t mention the husband at all,’ Lee said.
The next item was a stiff formal card of cream paper, though yellowed now. It seemed to be the citation to accompany the medal. In ornate flowing writing it described the actions of Private Bertram Christie in running forward under enemy fire to rescue a wounded and unconscious ‘corporal of another regiment’. ‘In conveying his fellow-soldier safely back to his own lines Private Christie endangered his own life and displayed conspicuous gallantry, for which His Majesty is pleased to honour Private Bertram Christie with the award of the St George Medal.’
‘Curiouser and curiouser,’ Lee said.
‘Sounds like you and Robyn,’ I said. ‘I reckon she should get a medal.’
There were a few odds and ends then: birth certificates for all three Christies, the marriage certificate of Bertram and Imogen, a postcard addressed to Bertram from his wife, and saying merely ‘We will be on the 4.15 train. Mother sends her kind regards. Your devoted wife, Imogen.’ There were some bank documents and a notebook containing lots of accounts and figures. I pointed to one item that said, ‘To a double bed, £4/10/6’.
‘How much is that?’ Lee asked.
‘About eight dollars I think. Don’t you double the number of pounds? I don’t know what you do with the shillings and pence.’
Then we came to the last of the formal documents, a long sheet of paper with a red seal on top. It was typed and signed at the bottom with a black flourish of ink. We settled down to read it, and found in the dry language of the coroner the story of the man who had killed his wife and child:
Be it known by all persons having business with His Majesty’s Courts that I, HAROLD AMORY DOUGLAS BATTY, being duly appointed Magistrate and Coroner in the District of Mt Tumbler, make the following findings and recommendations with respect to the deaths of IMOGEN MARY CHRISTIE, aged twenty-four, married woman of this parish, and ALFRED BERTRAM CHRISTIE, aged three, infant of this parish, both residing at Block 16A on the Aberfoyle track, forty-four miles to the southwest of Pink Mountain:
1.That both deceased met their deaths on or about December 24 last, at the hands of BERTRAM HUBERT SEXTON CHRISTIE, as a result of bullet wounds to the head.
2.That both deceased lived with BERTRAM HUBERT SEXTON CHRISTIE, farmer, in the relationships respectively of wife and son to the said BERTRAM HUBERT SEXTON CHRISTIE, in a wooden cottage at the above address, this being a particularly remote part of the Mt Tumbler district.
3.That there is no evidence of marital disharmony between BERTRAM HUBERT SEXTON CHRISTIE and IMOGEN MARY CHRISTIE, and that on the contrary BERTRAM HUBERT SEXTON CHRISTIE was a loving husband and father, IMOGEN MARY CHRISTIE a dutiful and even-tempered wife, and the child ALFRED BERTRAM CHRISTIE a sweet child of good disposition, and that is the testimony of WILSON HUBERT GEORGE, farmer, and neighbour to the deceased, and MURIEL EDNA MAYBERRY, married woman and neighbour to the deceased.
4.That the nearest medical practitioner or nursing sister to the Christies was at Dunstan Lake, being a day and a half’s ride away, and further.
5.That severe bushfires were burning on and around the Aberfoyle track, the Mt Tumbler-Mt Octopus Road, Wild Goat Track and to the south of Pink Mountain, which had the effect of isolating the Christie property, and that this information was known to BERTRAM HUBERT SEXTON CHRISTIE.
6.That both deceased met their deaths EITHER as a result of bushfire consuming the Christie residence, during which both were terribly burnt, and that BERTRAM HUBERT SEXTON CHRISTIE believing their injuries to be mortal and unable to bear their suffering, and knowing also that medical aid was beyond immediate reach, killed both deceased with single shots to the head from a rifle owned by BERTRAM HUBERT SEXTON CHRISTIE; and that is the testimony of BERTRAM HUBERT SEXTON CHRISTIE.
OR that both deceased were wilfully and feloniously murdered by BERTRAM HUBERT SEXTON CHRISTIE with the aforesaid rifle, and the bodies deliberately burned in an attempt to conceal the facts of the case.
7.That medical science cannot say as to which came first, the bullets or the burning, and that is the testimony of Dr JACKSON MUIRFIELD WATSON, medical practitioner and forensic scientist, of Stratton and District Hospital, Stratton.
8.That police inquiries have been unable to locate any other persons with evidence bearing upon the deaths of IMOGEN MARY CHRISTIE or ALFRED BERTRAM CHRISTIE, and that is the testimony of Constable FREDERICK JOHN WHYKES of the Police Station, Mt Tumbler.
9.That on the evidence before me I am unable to make any further findings as to the manner in which the deceased met their deaths.
RECOMMENDED:
1.That urgent consideration be given to the provision of medical services at Mt Tumbler.
2.That the Director of Public Prosecutions lays an information of WILFUL AND FELONIOUS MURDER against BERTRAM HUBERT SEXTON CHRISTIE.
Signed by the hand of me, HAROLD AMORY DOUGLAS BATTY, in the Mt Tumbler Magistrate’s Court this day, the 18th of April.
Chapter Sixteen
There were two other documents in the box.
One was a letter from Imogen Christie’s mother. She wrote:
Dear Mr Christie, (‘“Mr Christie!”’ Lee commented; and I said, ‘Well, they were very formal in those days.’) I am in receipt of your letter of November 12. Indeed your position is a difficult one. As you know I have always stood by you and defended your account of the dreadful deaths of my dear daughter and my dear grandson, as being the only possible true one, and I have always believed and devoutly prayed it so to be. And I rejoiced, as you know, when the jury pronounced you innocent, for I believe you to have been a man unjustly accused, and if the Law does not know a case such as yours then more shame on the law I say, but the jury did the only thing possible, despite what the Judge said. And you know I have always held to the one point of view and have said so from one end of the district to the other. I cannot think that I could have done any more. No man, and no woman either, can still wagging tongues, and if they are as bad as you say and you will be for
ced to leave the district it is a shame but there is no stopping women once they begin to gossip, and I say it although I am a traitor to my sex, but there it is, that is the way of the world and no doubt always will be. And you know you will always be welcome under the roof of,
Imogen Emma Eakin
The last thing was a poem, a simple poem:
In this life of froth and bubble,
Two things stand like stone.
Kindness in another’s trouble,
Courage in your own.
When we’d read that, Lee silently wrapped everything up again and replaced it in the tin. It didn’t surprise me when he put the tin back in the cavity and dropped the windowsill on top of it. I knew that we weren’t necessarily leaving it there forever, to decay into fragments and then dust, but at the moment there was too much to absorb, too much to think about. We left the hut silently, and we left it to its silence.
Half way back along the creek I turned to face Lee, who was splashing along behind me. It was about the only spot in the cool tunnel of green where we could stand. I put my hands around the back of his neck and kissed him hungrily. After a moment of shock, when his lips felt numb, he began kissing me back, pressing his mouth hard into mine. There we were, standing in the cold stream, exchanging hot kisses. I explored not just his lips but his smell, the feeling of his skin, the shape of his shoulder blades, the warmth of the back of his neck. After a while I broke off and laid my head against his shoulder, one arm still around him. I looked down at the cool steady-flowing water, moving along its ordained course.
‘That coroner’s report,’ I said to Lee.
‘Yes?’
‘We were talking about reason and emotion.’
John Marsden - Tomorrow 1 Page 18
