by Gary Crew
But she was happy in her royal blue overalls.
So Rosa had a go. No longer Rosebud, demure Flower of the House, but a woman on a mission, a businesswoman, eager for cash – though not at the expense of her body.
‘I’ll do no more of that,’ she informed Augustus. ‘I’ve seen enough body parts to last me a lifetime; big and small, black and white – and the occasional yellow – so I’m making a quid and getting out. From now on, it’s the life of the mind for me.’
And true to her word, in a year or two (perhaps more, perhaps less, who knew?), having engineered the arrival of the West Moreton Travelling Library out the front of the house, its glue-factory nag round-shouldered and drooping, she embraced the driver, a foolish young librarian by the name of Barkus Hardacre, so craftily conned, and hailing her companions to join her, they left.
Stan and Augustus were delighted, revelling in the prospect of the adventure, but as Augustus turned, wanting one last look at the house, he saw Mary Smokes sitting on the front steps, waving him back.
‘’Ere,’ she yelled. ‘Got somethin’,’ and she held out her hand.
‘That’s sawdust,’ Augustus observed, mystified. ‘From Stan sawing my ladder.’
‘Nah,’ she said with a grin. ‘From borers, down there, under da v’randa. This house rotten, eh?’
And delighting in the poetry, Augustus kissed her lips.
THE LIBRARY
OPPOSED AS SHE WAS to the exploitation of her body, Rosa had no qualms about getting all she wanted from the smitten Barkus Hardacre, vowing that she would use every coy and callous wile to keep him forever in that state of wild ecstasy and mad pursuit – which he might have wised up to had he chanced upon a Grecian urn – until she had learnt all she could of the life of the mind, this library business, after which, unravished bride as she determined to remain, she would give him the boot.
Having once ensnared him – and the use of his commodious wagon – all that time ago, she had watched and waited as Miss la Vie’s house fell.
First the suicide of the Blue Butterfly (tragic, though convenient); then the curious exposure of the Madam (who would have thought she had a heart?), and her remarkable disappearance; then that Red Hannah chucking it in to work in the railyard (better off lugging locos, she was).
So Rosa had come to manage the house in its final days. And since she was the boss, she didn’t need to get dirty (the others could do that), all of which allowed her to croon as the love-struck Hardacre pulled away from the place, ‘Oh Barkus, you are so smart. Would you, will you, teach me the joys of cataloguing?’ and giving his gluey nag the giddy-up, the smitten fool did.
They clip-clopped the country for six weeks, Rosa and the willing Barkus up front, she taking notes on her tight-pressed knees, Stan and Augustus at the back, legs dangling (Stan’s, at least) as the tin billy clattered and the red dust rose.
On clear nights the boys slept under the stars, Augustus staring up while Stan snored. The boy (was he still?) would have liked to ask, ‘Stan, do you believe in God?’ because he often wondered if he did himself, considering the beauty that surrounded him, or arched over him, or spread beneath him, to which he was closer, tiny as he was, often spotting stuff in the dust, the dirt, like flowers. He especially liked white daisies, particularly those papery ones with yellow centres, and ants and beetles, although the beetles with hard black wings (the carapace, was it?) he did not like because of the crack they made if trodden on, and the fact that the black ones grabbed his finger and clung if he poked, but he liked the blue-green iridescent ones that were a bit like the colour of that butterfly he saw under the house with Mary Smokes that time, and Blue Butterfly herself, of course, though dead now, and in the proper long dark. But these stars: Surely, he thought, some Creator, some Super Being, some God made them. And a sudden memory came over him of those other firmaments: the cobalt blue of the canvas roof in Little Donny’s daggy tent and the peeling stars, and he sighed, wondering, has Little Donny’s star fallen? And that earlier firmament: the underside of his mother’s keyboard, and darkness there. And fearing he would cry because it was all too beautiful, all too awful, he tried to calm himself, to will himself to be quiet, but could not.
How he wished that Stan would wake up so he could sing for him, if only to ease his spirit.
And the thought occurred to him, I don’t know any spiritual songs, any religious lyrics, anything like what might be called hymns. Such songs were never sung at his mother’s (although believers must have come, must have been there somewhere, must even have been moved to sing, yet silenced, suffocated by her presence or asphyxiated in the vapours of her grog, which was possible, the gin always cheap.
As he wondered, staring, the thought came to him that singing was a spiritual act in itself, which must be, he assumed, why he harboured the hope that he might make that perfect note, and having made it, struck it, grow; that he would create that note out of himself, his own tiny body, and through his own voice reconstruct himself. Re-create himself, as it were, as some other Creator–Some other Being–had made the night.
But once asleep, Stan never stirred, so Augustus was obliged to keep his spiritual self to himself, which was probably all to the good, Stan being who he was and a bit rough round the edges.
One morning as they wandered behind the library wagon, Augustus said to Stan, ‘Stan, I was looking at the stars the other night, thinking, and I wondered, do you believe in God?’ He waited, since he knew that Stan would have to consider this.
‘Mate,’ Stan said eventually, slowly, pondering, ‘mate, I believe in love.’
‘No, no,’ Augustus protested. ‘I said, God, not love. Do you believe there is a God? You know, who made the stars?’
‘Mate,’ Stan replied, ‘I answered that.’
Augustus frowned.
‘What?’
‘I said that I believed in love, okay?’
‘Stan,’ Augustus said, ‘that’s not what I asked.’
Stan stopped, looking down. ‘It is,’ he said.
‘Sorry?’
‘I’m saying,’ Stan sighed, heaving on, ‘that since there’s love, there must be a God. See?’
‘Not really,’ Augustus muttered, sorry he had got into this.
‘There ain’t nothing like love,’ Stan said, addressing no-one in particular. ‘Mate, the love I had for Hogie, well, that was something.’ he paused, framing ideas into words. ‘Then you came along and I knew. I had nothing like that before. Nothing that good, that special. So yeah, I believe.’
‘But,’ Augustus wondered, ‘there must have been someone else …’
‘Let’s just walk,’ Stan replied.
So they did.
That is how they lived for six weeks (was is only six?), loving the serenity: the bush, the stars, the talk, (the times of no-talk) as they ambled side by side or perched on the wagon’s back, taking it all in, until one afternoon while Barkus was off talking to a teacher, or a preacher, or some other person in need of the succour of literature, Rosa joined the boys for a cuppa.
‘Stan,’ she said, sitting on a log in front of the boiling billy, ‘Augustus, the time has come for me to call a halt.’
‘Where? Here?’ Augustus stared about. ‘We’re in the middle of the bush. There’s nothing here but gum trees.’
‘I seen wattle,’ Stan added, helpfully.
‘No! No!’ Rosa declared, getting to her feet. ‘The time’s come for me to break it off with Barkus.’
They looked at her, astonished.
‘I’ve got what I wanted.’
‘Which was?’ Augustus demanded.
Stan poked the fire.
‘We travelled and he taught me,’ she said.
‘Eh?’
‘I know stuff now. Library stuff. Like how a catalogue works. How to organise one. How to develop one. I can live the life of the mind.’
‘Eh?’
‘What I’m saying is, I don’t need him anymore.’
‘
I thought you liked him.’
‘Well I don’t.’
‘I’m goin’ for a pee,’ Stan offered, striding off.
‘But he’s nice. He’s not dirty like those miners. And he doesn’t pay you, does he?’ He looked at her intently, his meaning clear.
‘No, Augustus, he doesn’t pay me because there is nothing to pay me for. I am not his whore. You need to understand that.’
‘Oh.’ Augustus would need to tell Stan, who suffered under the same misapprehension.
‘Are you sure that’s clear?’ Rosa demanded. ‘I don’t want you thinking … Those days are over, you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Positive?’
‘Yes, yes, yes!’
‘Good.’
‘But he likes you. I can tell. And he feeds us.’
‘So?’
‘So how can you dump him?’
‘Augustus,’ she sighed. ‘How he feels has got nothing to do with me. He wanted me, he didn’t get me. That’s it. Finito. The end.’
‘That’s pretty tough, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, Augustus, it is tough. But that’s life. Think about yourself. Your own situation. You’re a dwarf. A smart dwarf, a talented dwarf, but a dwarf, all the same. When did life do you any favours?’
‘I can sing.’
‘I already said that you were talented. Go on, tell me how good life has been to you.’ He gripped the teapot tighter. ‘I found Stan. And you have looked after me.’
She shook her head. ‘Okay, okay, I’m glad to hear that you appreciate me. Us. But don’t you ever think that you have to do something to get out of this mess? Like find a job. You know, do something for yourself?’
‘Rosa, I haven’t even been to school.’
‘Don’t look at me,’ she snorted. ‘I’m not your mother.’
‘You could still take me.’
‘I don’t think so. I’ve put up with Hardacre so I could get a decent job. I’m not going to chuck all that in to cut lunches and walk you to school like some miner’s wife.’
‘So what can I do? Go back to the circus and be a freak, like Little Donny? Is that what you mean? Augustus, the Singing Freak. Didn’t we already try that?’
‘Sometimes I could strangle you,’ she wailed. ‘I really could. You’re just too sharp for your own good. Okay. Okay. Let’s talk about me. No matter what you want to do, or what Barkus wants to do for me, or to me, I want my own life. That’s why I took this pony ride. To learn from him. Get it? And I did. So now …’
‘So you used him.’
‘Huh?’
‘You used him. You let him think that you would be with him. Or something. And you never were going to be. Ever. Not from the start.’
‘You got that right, kid. You sure got that right. But let me sort you out on something: you think Stan is with you because he likes you? Huh? Do you? Don’t be a dill. He’s with you because that monkey copped it. Because that Hogie died. That why he’s with you. Because he’s got nobody else. Get it?’
Augustus took this on the chin. He had long wondered, and was prepared to accept. ‘Maybe,’ he declared and, suddenly brightening, ‘but that doesn’t explain why Stan just told me that he loved me. And he did. And I believe him. So who cares what you say? I’d rather believe Stan.’
Rosa laughed. ‘You’re right again. But only insofar as the “Who cares?” bit. I mean, why are we having this stupid conversation, anyway? I don’t need your approval to do what I’m going to do. So like you say, “Who cares?”’
‘You might one day, Rosa,’ he muttered. ‘Here, let me pour your tea before it gets cold. And tell me – since I know that your mind is made up – what are you going to do? More importantly, what are you going to do with us? Leave us here to starve?’
‘Don’t be stupid. Why would I leave you to starve after I just spent years letting disgusting men maul me so that I could look after you? Smart as you are, Augustus, you can also be stupid. And hurtful.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he began, ‘but you did say awful things about Stan.’
‘Yeah, well, Stan’s Stan and Stan can be a bit cuckoo too. But let’s get on. First, because I got Barkus to teach me cataloguing, like I said, I’ve managed to con him into giving me a reference for a job. A real job. Using my brains. How’s that?’
‘Rosa,’ he gasped, ‘that’s really good. I’m happy for you, honest.’
‘I am too. So I’m going to get him to take us back to Ipswich and I’ll try to get a job in the library there. He reckons that place is run by a mob of old dragons and they could use somebody smart and fresh.’
‘But Rosa, if you go back there, and then drop him, he’ll see you whenever he comes in to change the books in his wagon. He won’t be very pleased about that.’
‘Too bad,’ she shrugged. ‘I already told you, I’m doing this for me. There’s other girls he can fall for. He went for me quick enough. I don’t reckon he’s choosy.’
‘But you let him think that you loved him?’
‘I never said that.’
‘You never told him?’
‘He never asked. He’s stupid like that.’
‘So he’s got no idea?’
‘I guess.’
‘And you’re going to give him the brush-off just like that?’
‘Not until he drives us back. I’m not crazy.’
‘And if you get this job – if, remember – you’re going to get paid?’
‘’Course I’ll get paid.’
‘And you won’t have to be with men anymore? Not even librarians?’
‘That’s the plan,’ she laughed. ‘No more men. Ever!’
‘And us? Me and Stan? What will happen to us?’
‘Don’t worry about it. Let me get this job, and after I’ve sorted Barkus out, I’ll find a place for you. Yes, Augustus, both of you. Sooner or later Stan will have to find work again. He hasn’t had a pay packet since I left the whorehouse and he stopped working down the mine. This holiday can’t last forever. I’m okay. I’ve still got money left from Miss la Vie’s. That should see you – us – set up. Don’t worry, the redhead’s on top of this. You wait and see …’ She sipped her cold tea, wincing.
After their return to Ipswich, Barkus Hardacre seemed to vanish. He was neither visible nor mentioned in despatches.
‘I don’t feel too good about Rosa dumping that Barkus,’ Stan muttered.
Augustus made a face. ‘Me neither,’ he admitted. But I’m sure not mentioning his name to her again. I don’t want another earbashing.’
But Barkus or no Barkus, Rosa did get a library job. And a good job it was too; front desk.
‘Must have been some reference he wrote,’ Stan observed.
‘I reckon he loved her,’ Augustus agreed. ‘Although that would now be past tense, I reckon.’
‘Yeah,’ Stan chuckled. ‘She’s a tough sheila, that one.’
Tough as she might be, Rosa did not forget her promise to set them up. She rented a furnished cottage in Booval, a couple of miles out of Ipswich. She caught the 8.05 train every morning to return every evening on the 5.07.
Stan went back down the pit, working double shifts so he could take three or four days off to be home.
Augustus liked this little house, of the type known as ‘workers dwellings’ since they were built especially for the miners and their families. Made of timber and clad with weatherboards, the cottage was raised on three-foot timber stumps to allow a cooling breeze under. The interior walls were vertical tongue-and-groove timber with huntsman spiders lurking in the grooves, cockroaches too, in the kitchen; the roof was corrugated iron. Once there had been an open verandah along the front, the roof extending over, but as the previous owner’s family had evidently expanded, the verandah had been half enclosed (from the central front steps, and across to the left), to form what was known as the ‘sleep-out’; this space serving as Augustus’s room, while Rosa and
Stan had a proper bedroom each.
Having no memory of where he slept in his mother’s big white house (under the piano, was it?), this was the first room of his own that Augustus could remember, and he was happy. He liked sitting up in his narrow cast-iron bed to look out over the front yard and down the street, watching the miners and their families come and go. He liked the belonging; but he also liked the secrecy, that nobody knew he was there, watching. He liked the little front yard behind the unpainted picket fence, the crazy paved path (just bits of rock set into the earth, some amateur gardener’s idea of design), leading from the front gate to the front steps, and the narrow garden running along the front with its sandpapery red and yellow and orange zinnias in summer and buttery freesias in spring. But he especially liked to sit and wait for Stan to come home, and then Rosa, walking up from the train, and throwing open the creaky gate to walk that crazy path before coming in to drop down on the faded Genoa lounge, redolent with the aroma of pipe tobacco, before a slab of fruit cake and cup of tea.
One thing that Augustus didn’t like was the casement windows. The rest of the house had clear glass sash windows (raised or lowered straight up or down), but those on the sleep-out, being ‘an extension’ – the added bonus of all timber houses – were casement windows, fixed with panes of frosted glass and purportedly opening at an angle to ‘catch the breeze’, which was not so in this case. Whoever fitted Augustus’s sleep-out casements hinged them in the wrong direction so the cool afternoon breeze struck the exterior glass, deflecting it along the outer wall of the house, leaving Augustus in a lather of Boovalonian sweat. Worse, because the glass was frosted, he could not see out if the window was shut, and even when it was open he could only look out if he sat forward, leaning on the sill. So he piled up his pillows and tucked his legs under and did just that.
