by Derek Beaven
In a pool of shadow between a crazy bed frame with rusted springs and a galvanised storage tank, the car’s window yawns a toothless mouth. I must go down, and step into the stiff dried weeds grown up so quickly since the last rainstorm. Even in broad daylight I would fight shy of treading here.
I try to thump each footfall of earth as I touch it. Downward, the underbrush grows darker by the second, but eventually I have done enough and am able to crouch by the car door at the slope’s foot. With my face scrunched up, I make myself peer in. A knife is paltry defence – against a king brown, say. I expect an attack any moment.
But yes, the scarecrow figure we stole from the field beyond the Great North Road, the guy, lies, yes, exactly as we placed him on the back seat, fake face down, one barbeque skewer through his back, two through his backside, pinned to the upholstery. To be burnt. When they light the dump. Which they do periodically. We have seen them, Garrity and I. But not burnt yet. The man in the truck might come down and do it tonight, even. The paper trilby and the labels stuck to the guy’s midriff still bear the inscription Chaunteyman, waiting for it.
Something gives under my shoe. I feel myself jolt and snatch my foot away. Then freeze. I have just enough sense not to go running. I can just make out, tangled under some stalks, a spread of old clothes and toys, spilled from that sack in the weeds higher up. I have stepped on the body of a child’s doll, in a white-spotted dress, quite hidden in the grass. A stupid impulse makes me pick it up. I have broken its body.
It has the exact likeness of Penny, of course: a mocking chubby likeness. When I turn it, the eyes blink open in the gloom. Then, heedless of fangs or anything, my body decides for me – scoots me to the ridge’s crest before I know it. Because a six-inch stinging centipede drops out of the doll’s crack and falls right next to me. In the air it leaves a kicking, twisting trace – the same shape as my scream.
Penny and Robert: it is as I feared. The cause is in my own heart and I myself am the instrument. Not Chaunteyman, but my own thoughts and deeds. My Holden crib staged some history I was supposed to suppress. It destroyed those I loved and who loved one another. There is something in the blood – my father was right. The wind shames me; but the sun stands full on the horizon, the pit is too dark and I shall lose my escape. No cloud flares now, the sky has turned smoky and there are a few faint stars.
Yet I still could go down again, quickly reach in and remove the stakes that hold the image there. Even if Penny and Robert are already dead and the act could make no difference yet it might just be done – a gesture of atonement and good faith. ‘It takes guts, Ralphie. It’s a man’s world.’ – Dad. Below me, the shadows of the dump’s valleys are pools of murk. Hard to make out even the Holden’s shape, now, the car, the bed frame and the doll are lapped by a tide of incoming night. Down in the long grass a rustle sounds like a slither, and I lose my nerve. ‘I can’t! I can’t! That’s enough!’
That night as I lie in bed I wish only to be as Penny and Robert, at one with their desert, whose colours are of rage, black-edged. My heart is a shrine to their bleached, anhydrous bodies, slumped out of a car’s open door. I see the glare on their windscreen, the coachwork. And the two of them: inverted, borne on a life-raft of shadow. All around scorched air coats the pink dust, the bright scatter of flint. I have them die together, a heat death, in the instant; her forearm blistered, next to his. The contamination hints like an intimate opal under her wrist, where it touches the ground; and under his cheek – like the paint on the hands of my luminous watch. It glows in the dark.
Perhaps I am already dead and turned to nickel, gold, plutonium inside. Yes, surely I have died; that is Australia and thus are my very thoughts turned fatal.
22
We weighed anchor. Dawn steam rose from the Port Said lagoon. The early chill in the air was a brief concession to winter. ‘That over there’s the Nile, kid.’ Mr Chaunteyman was staring into the distance. ‘You see it?’
I believed him unquestioningly, in a kind of manly rapture. To compensate for the too-brief loan of his service revolver, he had already bought me a Winchester repeater popgun from the shop on D deck, and a real-looking six-shooter of my own, which he was teaching me how to twirl. In Australia we should have a fridge for ice lollies and a record-player for the latest pop records. With him I felt safe.
‘Do you ever have a bad dream, Mr Chaunteyman?’
‘Call me Dave, OK. How many times do I have to tell you.’
‘OK … Dave. But do you?’
‘The hell. I surely don’t. Well, everyone has them sometime.’
‘We had to … My dad taught me how to stop yourself dreaming.’
‘Oh? Isn’t that great!’
‘He taught me mind control. For my tests. For the Navy. He said the mind’s like an electrical circuit. He said it was a hard, cruel world and you had to be got ready. He wanted to harden me up. When he’d be there and there was a bad dream he’d teach me how to control it. But now he’s not here.’
‘Christ!’
‘What tortures do the American Navy use?’
‘Whoa there! Hey, son, we’re the good guys, remember. Bad dreams, tortures. You want a drink already, candy bar? Is that it? Why can’t you just ask for one. American Navy. Someone has been neglecting your political education, Mr Lightfoot. It isn’t agreeable to a gentleman, kid, to find himself comparisoned with Japs. Or Commies. A decent man doesn’t likes it, understand?’
‘Sorry’
‘Good. Now those nasty little bamboo boys’ll torture you in any number of ways before they take a second glance. They’re inventive.’
‘I was just … I just wanted to … I don’t know if I’ve got enough grit. To take it … like a man, I mean, if it comes … The Japs aren’t ever going to get to Australia, are they?’
‘Jesus, no. Don’t you worry any on that score. They won’t try any damn thing again if they know what’s good for them. Not after the licking they got last time. Know how to get a Jap out of a cave? Flame-thrower. Know how to get a Jap out of a war?’ He chuckled.
‘Yeah.’ I made myself chuckle too. ‘But in the US Navy. Do they have punishments, then. Tests …? I was going to tell you …’
‘What the hell d’you want to go on about things like that for? Torture. Punishments. D’you want me to tell you about the cat? You’ve done something you shouldn’t? Now listen. A nice guy like me does not order up my shipmate for a flogging. Hell knows there’ve been some I’d have liked to. But nobody gets the damn cat. It doesn’t happen any more. What’s with you this morning? Think ol’ Dave’s going to come after you, do you?’
‘I thought if I told it to you. He said not to tell anyone, my dad. But … He said we have to preserve the British …’
‘Yeah. England expects. But that’s all over now, for Christ’s sake.’ He looked at his wrist-watch, an enviable knobbed and knurled creation he called a chronometer. ‘The lime-juice legacy. Post-colonial frenzy. Know something? It’s only three years ago your guys ripped up this harbour entrance and blocked the waterway. But that’s all over too. And your Marines only killed six hundred or so Egyptians. Right over there.’ He pointed. ‘How about that? Not good guys, eh? Stupid guys. Who uses the Canal? Yeah. Stupid guys. England’s all over. It’s blown; just forget it.’
He adjusted his jacket and touched his moustache. ‘But I believe I have an appointment with your mother in just one minute, kid. Do me a favour and keep an eye on that Arab down there. I’ve been watching him. I think he’s up to something. Wait right here and don’t come down. This is the mysterious East, son. Your mother and I’ll be busy.’
For twenty minutes, as conscientiously as I could, I watched the Arab who sat on the foredeck, surrounded by his wares. Seemingly he had woken with the ship. Next to one of the winches, he was motionless under a large head-blanket. It made a tent against the sun. Hardly any other passengers were about. Bored and beginning to sweat, I turned to look at the receding city.
Wit
hin moments, however, there came a sound of thumping plimsolls from behind me. I knew what they announced and prepared myself, hunching over the rail and affecting to take no notice. But it was to no avail: Barnwell’s aircrew, jogging their circuit of the deck as a squad, broke off and slung themselves either side of me, panting.
‘Been to a party then have you, mate?’ said the one closest to me.
‘No.’
‘Oh. Thought you’d gone and got lit up somewhere.’ They guffawed.
‘Nice pyjamas, then,’ from the one on the other side. ‘Friend or foe?’
‘Friend.’
‘That’s a relief, mate. Bet you’d go down a treat in Cairo.’
Their laughter burst open raucously.
One who had not yet spoken intervened. ‘He’s not a Gippo, Tosher. He’s just been down in the hold all night. Getting toasted. And that’s how you’ll end up, Michael, my lad!’
‘Shut it, Maclean.’
‘Yes, corporal.’
‘Rest over. Come on, you lot.’
‘Oi, oi,’ said the first. ‘Just socialising with one of our young nobs. Nice weather we’re having, don’t you know. Warming up, in’t it, for the time of year? Know how we used to kill flies in the desert? I’m talking to you, sunshine.’
‘No,’ I said.
‘That’s enough, Tosher. Get moving.’
‘Treacle-belly flap cock. You take the treacle, see …’
Once more the others roared their amusement.
‘Bet yours bloody glows in the dark by now, Len.’
‘Yeah. Get Barnwell to run his ticker over it for you. He likes you, Lennie. You’re always up his arse, aren’t you? Get him to check your prospects.’
‘Shag yourself, mate.’
‘You’re going on a fucking charge, Maclean. Now get formed up.’ To me: ‘Sorry, mate. No shore leave. Can’t be too hard on ’em.’ But the corporal was smiling too. They trotted off.
Because it was a Sunday, services of various denominations would be held. And Robert would take care to avoid them. He walked slowly to the head of the promenade deck, and then down where the stairs dropped into a region of no man’s land, until he stood before the short run of steps up again to the cluttered foredeck.
The Armorica eased her way across a glass-green surface to join a queue of three other ships waiting to enter the Canal. In the brief delay we held water, effortlessly, between Ports Fuad on the left, and Said on the right. It was indeed a gateway. Eastward, in the huge lagoon from which the Canal was constructed, Fuad lay, a low, commercial reef. Various smaller ships were moored up against its sand-coloured wharves. Set back from its waterfront, drawn sharply dark by the sun’s morning angle, and interspersed with the odd miraculous cypress, modern housing ran in a pattern of flattened cubes. Rebuilt, Robert supposed: though there was actually no sign of bomb damage. One might believe it had never happened. Further down, in the direction the bows pointed, there were small cranes and the spoil of dredging; and the smoke smudge from a cargo vessel. But of what he knew had actually taken place there were no certain traces at all.
23
He turned from the further shore’s haze. A bum-boatman far below had kept pace with his progress and now hoped to catch his attention. Robert ignored him, and hung instead over the starboard gunwale. From here he could stare back on to the former British government building, just slipping astern. Russell had helpfully pointed it out last night. Drenched in brilliant morning, with its flag-pole, its two storeys of sugar-white arches supporting the central domes, it seemed to have risen from the water. And beyond the place floated the odd little city itself, where he and Penny had walked. That was bright, too, and rendered romantically simple by only a slight distance.
Robert had dreamed badly. It had been a fretful night.
‘Sleep all right?’ Joe had said, returning from the toilet. With his mouth still full of toothpaste, Robert gave a lying, thumbs-up sign.
‘I’ll give you a few pointers. You ought to know one or two things about how to conduct yourself in Australia, Bob. Gestures with the thumb, for example. Slightly different connotation down there, don’t ask me why. It’s not just a matter of hitching a lift, or all the best and a jolly good show. All right?’
Robert grunted and returned to the sink.
But Joe warmed to his subject. ‘One other thing. The root.’
‘The what?’ Robert mopped his mouth, and, having rinsed his toothbrush and shaving equipment, straightened up.
‘The root. See, Bob, the Aussies are easy-going blokes, friendly and so on. Really friendly. They like their beer and they stick by their mates. But they don’t like the English. I mean they don’t like the recent English.’ He jerked his thumb very significantly in the direction of the ship’s stern. ‘And do you know why?’
‘No.’ Robert groped: ‘Convicts? Being shipped out in irons?’ But of course that was a century ago. He wondered, looking at Joe’s expression, if he had blundered into an unforgivable. ‘The root of it all?’
Joe relaxed into a grin. ‘You mean the stain? Of course, you’re right, Bob. Someone should have told you, though. Glad you brought it up here, with me. Never mention the stain, whatever you do. Never, never, never. By buggery. But the root, that’s something quite different … The sheilas.’
‘Sheilas are women, yes?’
‘Exactly. You know what sheilas are. You don’t know what the root is.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Joe.’
‘Root is what sheilas are for. Root is what you’d call fuck.’
There was a pause. ‘I see.’
‘It’s called that—’
‘Root?’
‘Yes. It’s called that, in my opinion, Bob, for a peculiarly Australian reason. Shall I go on?’
‘I suppose you’d better.’
‘It’s completely underground and in very short supply.’ Joe roared suddenly with laughter. Robert found himself laughing too. ‘But here’s the catch, Bob. This lot in the stern.’ He gestured again.’ You lot, I should say. You make-a-new-life-for-yourself folk – because although you’re getting this all paid for, mate, you’ll find you’re in the same back end of a boat when you get there – you lot have views on the root which don’t fit in with that oddly beautiful and arid thing, the landscape down under. Do I make myself clear?’
‘No.’
‘The Pommies breed, Bob. Understand? The Pommies come and they all live together, and they breed. They have women, and they’re always pregnant. There’s always kids and mess and women’s stuff. You can see it. You can almost see it happening. It’s all too visible. And you can hear it, if you walk too close. If you go to where the bloody Pommies cluster together. Bloody shrieking out. It’s the root too blatant, not in the spirit of the root, Bob. At least the Eyeties and the Greeks and Hungarians and whatever can be kept out of sight; and whatever they do, they don’t do it in English. Get it?’
‘OK.’
‘Good.’ He laughed.
Robert laughed, astonished that somewhere in the world the English were seen as sexual.
‘Oh, and one other thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘Australians don’t have wet dreams … or anything in that kind of line. They don’t need them, you see!’ He hooted with laughter again.
Robert allowed himself to chuckle. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better get down to my studying again.’ He picked up a book. Any book.
‘Aah, let it go, mate. I’m only giving you the drum.’
‘Well, I think I’ll go and look at the papers.’
‘Come back after brekker. We’ll take my chessboard to the library. Say, six moves each and I promise I won’t say another word.’
Mortified, Robert escaped.
Now, looking directly astern, he saw a stub-shaped mark, past the city, furthest away of all. It poked up like a blurred matchbox from the waste of brown grit right back near the Med – they had passed it on their way in. It was the plinth of the de Lesseps sta
tue, set up to greet ships from Europe. The portrait itself had been smashed off after the Anglo-French invasion. Robert had discovered the fact for himself. Russell had not mentioned it; nor had the ship’s guide sheet. So it was the one sign of a moment of Whitehall panic. A disgraceful incident, not really admitted as such – more generally referred to as a fiasco. Everything all right now. Everything back to normal. Everything except Berlin cooled off – and that never cooled off. I should be enjoying myself, Robert thought.
But what would she expect of him, physically, if they should ever … He muttered out loud, ‘Don’t be bloody stupid.’ He tried to fix his mind on the post-breakfast entrapment Joe had contrived. Despite his loathing for chess, and his lack of expertise, Robert had grown intensely irritable at the thought of another losing position. He found himself preoccupied – with what, he did not quite know. The board’s ivory problems nagged at his attention. He liked her hair especially; it was shortish, like a soft, fresh cap, framing her face.
Could he only summon up the courage, he would like to explain to someone – about Penny, of course; to Cheryl, possibly, if he could get her early enough in the day. Or to some man on board, maybe, who did not have ‘Made in England’ stamped on his heart. Curiously, it might have been Joe, if he had not snared him into this ridiculous duelling.
Robert sighed. He felt something of the movement under him at last, a tremor of the lagoon. The propellers were biting harder. He wondered if he would have to defeat Joe to stand any chance with her. Superstitious thought, locking horns, getting nowhere. That was wearying. He was crazy to think of it. Crazy.
It was not long before the ship slipped quietly between the low piers just proud of the water, and into the entrance to the Canal proper.
She had two children, for God’s sake. If he had only found an honest chum on board of the same age and in the same condition, as lovers in plays and stories always did. But he had not; and was debarred from contracting one by the illicit nature of his passion. If he were a rogue, or an American, to be meddling with other people’s wives. Even a lathered cad, like that awful man in the bar. But he was not. With his class and background, there were no models, except love itself – whatever that was. In the night it had been his whole body, trying to get his attention, to shout to him: Penny Kendrick! Her! Nobody else! And he was shouting back: Impossible!
