I glanced back at Johnno. His face was white. There were titters from the girls and even a few laughs from the boys, but Johnno’s friends looked down at their desks saying nothing.
Moloney read then about the woman holding her apron between her hands.
Johnno rose slowly to his feet, staring at the book in Moloney’s hands.
Moloney read on remorselessly.
“Please sir—”
Either Moloney didn’t hear him or he ignored him.
All at once Johnno leant down and plucked out his inkwell and flung it. It hit Moloney’s chest with such force that he doubled up, jerking his glasses to the floor. At first there wasn’t a sound. There stood Johnno, white as a sheet, and Moloney blinking beside me and holding his chest, the ink soaking into his shirt front, the composition still in his hand.
“Stamp on his glasses,” hissed Stinger.
I reached out my foot and heard the glass crunch under my heel.
“I—I’m sorry, sir,” I heard Johnno say.
Moloney raised his head slowly. In a hoarse voice he said, “Out! Out with you both. The police will hear about this, I assure you. Your parents, Reeve, will pay for my spectacles—every penny. Get out.”
He hadn’t moved from his position. The class was speechless, everyone staring unbelievingly as if the ink had been blood. Johnno remained in his place, his mouth half open. My heart was booming in my ears.
“Out!”
We clattered from the classroom together, out down the steps and into the empty grounds. Without a word we walked across the cricket pitch and climbed the fence and entered the bush. Somewhere among the trees we stopped and looked at each other. “I didn’t know anyone but Miss Beckenstall would read it,” said Johnno in a strained voice.
I couldn’t answer. In my ears was the crunching of Moloney’s glasses, a sound I can hear yet. To think of it and of the next twenty-four hours is to be a boy again.
“He’ll go to my old man,” said Johnno flatly. “Anyhow, I’m done for.” He looked at me hopelessly. “What do we do?”
I had no idea. We tried to talk about it; perhaps, after all, Moloney would say nothing. All we could do was go home and if we heard him coming, we could clear out.
“Where?” I said.
“Anywhere,” answered Johnno. “Otways, Queensland —anywhere.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
So we went home. Nothing happened at our place, but I could hardly speak a word all through tea.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked my father.
“I feel sick,” I said—which was true.
“You’d better get to bed early, then.”
As soon as it was dark I went out on the veranda and lay down without undressing. It was moonlight and very still, and for late November cool and misty. The light winked at the end of the pier and the answering lights far out in the channel winked back. Everything was the same—lights, stars, house, sea; everything except me. I listened for Moloney coming, but there was no sound of him. I could hear voices faintly from the pier and the sea lapping and then the squealing of Peters’ new loudspeaker, and a voice saying “3LO Melbourne, the time is now eight-thirty . . . .”
I must have been lying there half an hour when a pebble landed on the veranda. I sat up and saw someone moving in the tea-tree beside the house. Dropping over the edge of the veranda, I went into the shadow.
A girl’s voice whispered, “Charlie!”
Peering, I saw Eileen, the moonlight blanching her face.
“What’s happened?”
“Fred’s gone,” she said.
Eileen, who was always sure of herself, began crying. I took hold of her arm and led her away from the house.
“Mr Moloney came and told us,” she said. “Dad lost his temper and hit Fred in front of him.” The words came tumbling out so quickly that I could hardly follow what she was saying.
“If only he hadn’t hit back. He only hit once, but when he did dad punched him terribly and he didn’t try to protect himself.”
I felt sick. “Where is he?”
She shook her head. “I followed him to the Island, but lost him.”
We stood there, not knowing what to do. The Island was a strip of coast between the beach and the creek, only wide enough for a road and a row of houses. Except at holiday time, the houses were empty, their doors locked and their blinds drawn. I remembered that Johnno had said once that if a chap was stuck, if he was turned out of his home, he could find shelter there.
“I might be able to find him,” I said.
“I brought food for him,” said Eileen. “He’s had nothing.”
In the shadows, picking up the parcel, we heard a horse and jinker on the gravel road. It pulled up at our gate and old Moloney got out. He was bare-headed, his scalp shining in the moonlight. When he had gone to our front door, out of our sight, I said, “We can go down the cliffs to the beach.”
“I’ll go home,” said Eileen. “It will make things worse if I stay.”
She handed me the food, but I was hardly noticing her. My mind was on Moloney and my father.
“It’s upset him terribly.”
“Upset—?”
“Dad—he’s been sitting with his head in his hands ever since—”
“I must go,” I said.
I left her there and ran towards the path down the cliffs. Just then I heard the veranda door open, and my father striding round to my bed.
“Charlie!” And as he got nearer, “Why didn’t you tell us about this?”
I hesitated at the top of the path. “Charlie,” I heard more loudly, “you had better come in at once.”
I almost turned back. Inside, through the open door, I could see the light shining on Moloney’s head and my mother holding Ian by the hand.
“Charlie!”
I went softly down the path. Before me the moon shone on the sea, silhouetting tea-tree to either side. I would go, I thought, to the spot where Eileen had last seen him, and would look for him at each house.
I came on to the beach and began following it north-east, walking at the water’s edge. The tide was nearly full, but there was not so much as a ripple on the sea. I crossed the bridge at the mouth of the creek and went on along the Island.
All this part of the Island was flat except for low dunes behind the beach. Tea-tree grew thickly on these dunes, all bent inland and matted together. I stopped and looked about uneasily. Ahead lay the calm sea and white beach stretching as clear as day and the tea-tree black and somehow sad-looking. The tea-tree stood between the sea and the week-end houses, its tops growing so densely together that in places you could lie on them, and if it were windy you could feel the spindly trunks swaying beneath. Underneath this roof of leaves the sound of the sea was deadened even on the roughest days. Instead, you heard only the creaking of trunks as if the trees were whispering. Tracks came over the dunes from the beach and led to the houses—to “Warrawee” and “This’ll Do” and “Wy Wurrie”. They were flimsy houses most of them, their roofs rusting, their paint all faded. Except in holiday time, they were silent.
I went into the tea-tree uneasily. The moon shone on the tracks, but under the trees was black. I went to the fence-line of the houses and looked at them hunched under their trees, the branches touching their sides. There was no light anywhere.
I stopped outside the first house and called Johnno’s name. My voice sounded so loud that I moved back into the shadows. It would be better to go right up to the walls, I thought, and call softly.
I dragged open the gate of “Trawalla” and went up a sandy path to the veranda. As I stepped onto it the boards creaked, starting a bumping of rabbits underneath. I dodged a Coolgardie safe and a stack of banksia logs and a quoit-peg.
“Johnno!”
I listened but could hear noth
ing. He would go farther, I thought; this was too close to the town. But I continued to go into each house, calling and listening.
At “Warrawee” there was a window with undrawn blinds. I rubbed away the salt and looked inside. The moon shone on empty vases and shells and last year’s Christmas decorations. I tried to see into the shadow, but might as well have been blind.
“Johnno!”
I heard only my own heart. It had been booming ever since we had left the school. A cat came miaowing out of the shadows, stiff-tailed and friendly. For a while I hung on to it, listening to it purring, wishing the whole thing had never happened.
I said more loudly, “Johnno!”
The cat struggled down and ran into the darkness. I returned to the track in front of the houses. Everywhere smelt of salt and rust and of the dusty bark of the tea-tree. I stopped and peered into “This’ll Do” wondering whether it was worth going in. As I looked I heard a voice behind me.
I swung about. Johnno stood very still, the moon shining on his face, his face all bruised and cut, his lips so swollen that they changed his voice. I found I couldn’t speak.
He said softly, “I’m clearing out.”
When I didn’t say anything, he said, “I hit my dad.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Eileen told you?”
“Yes.”
He kicked at the sand, glancing down at his feet. “She was mad, too?”
“No, just worried. She gave me some food for you.”
He shook his head. “I don’t feel hungry.” He stood thinking for a bit, then he said, “Could you, do you think, do something for me?”
“Anything you like,” I said.
“Could you—” he began slowly, “could you, d’ you reckon, row me across the bay?”
I breathed deeply. “To Queenscliff?”
“Yes,” he said.
Now that the time had come the idea frightened me. But what was I to do myself? Johnno was waiting for me to answer.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll go with you.”
“We’d better start, then,” said Johnno.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
We kept to the tea-tree till we came to the place where the creek turned sharply to its outlet through the sand. At the bridge we watched awhile, but no one was near it. The mouth of the creek was boarded to stop drifting sand and in this part of it, fishing boats lay motionless. We crossed over and walked quickly towards the pier. Along that part of the beach the Olivers were hauling in their nets, stepping towards each other along the beach. We could see the moving water where the fish were trapped and hear the men’s low voices. Under the pier we stopped and looked towards our boatshed and up the cliffs to the house. Every light was on, but about the beach there was no one. I felt lonely suddenly, wishing I were back on the veranda, Moloney or no Moloney.
We went separately to the base of the cliff and lay flat there, listening and watching. There was only a lapping from the sea and someone laughing a long way off. I felt surprised that anyone could laugh so happily when we felt the way we did. We edged round the base of the cliff towards the boatshed and hid in the tea-tree. There was no sound from the house, but presently we heard Peters’ wireless squeal a few times and a voice say, “We are now taking you over to community singing at the Prahran town hall.”
“Can we get the door open?”
“I think so,” I said. “I’ll go and try.”
I crept behind the shed, then along the shadowy side of it. Sand had drifted half-way up the wall, so it was almost possible to step on the roof. I hid in the shadows there, listening. It was hard to hear anything for the noise of community singing, but after a few minutes the wireless was switched off.
I went slowly to the door and drew the latch. If my father came I could say that Johnno and I had been for a walk and had thought of going for a row in the moonlight—which would be true, or partly true.
I lifted the sagging doors, and smelt the usual smell of bait and oil and salt. Inside lay the sleeping boat, the moonlight touching its bows. Johnno appeared at my side without a sound and we began hauling together. We did the noisy part quickly, pulling the boat with strong tugs out of the shed and on to the sand. We hid then, watching from the shadows. No one came. From the house we could hear nothing except the occasional slam of a door. We went back and hauled the boat quickly down to the water’s edge, then I ran back for oars and rowlocks while Johnno began trampling our footmarks. Then he came backwards down the beach, scattering sand from a baling tin.
“Get in,” he whispered. “I’ll push her out.”
We had begun to move when a sound struck us motionless—a single excited bark. Gyp came running on to the beach, making pleased, gurgling sounds in his throat.
“Hell,” muttered Johnno, “what’ll we do?”
I shook my head. “If we don’t take him he’ll howl.”
“Let him in, then.”
I clicked my fingers, and when he came I lifted him over the stern then got in myself. He took up his figurehead position, pointing his nose across the Bay. Johnno stripped off his clothes and pushed us till the water was up to his chest, then he scrambled in.
For a full minute we sat listening. No one up at the house moved. In Peters’ all the lights had gone out, which meant it was half-past nine. Johnno wrapped his singlet round the blade of one oar and his underpants round the other and wet the leathers where they passed through the rowlocks. Then I began rowing, dipping the blades quietly, lying back hard. Phosphorus spun brightly in the water.
“Charlie!” The voice came from the veranda.
I stopped rowing. It was hard not to answer. Gyp looked round, sensing something was wrong.
“If you like,” whispered Johnno, “you could give it away—”
He had put on his trousers and shirt and was sitting in the stern.
“No,” I said. “No.” The words came from me almost involuntarily.
I began rowing strongly, keeping Johnno’s head lined up with our house lights.
“Charlie!” Already my father’s voice was less distinct. I kept pulling hard. Slowly the house lights drew away. The water rippled alongside; behind us our wake glittered in the moonlight. They have only to look this way, I thought, and we’re done.
“The tide’s on the turn,” said Johnno. I didn’t answer.
The pier light fell behind. It blinked on my left, while the house lights were still directly behind. The air was cool, but already the rowing was warming me. I rowed hard, feeling the need to hurry away in case I weakened and decided against it all. Johnno sat in the stern bathing his face with his handkerchief. His eyes were black and swollen and the corner of his mouth was bleeding still.
The house lights and the pier light drew together and fell lower on the horizon. Johnno said, “If you like I’ll row a bit.”
“No,” I said. “No, I’ll keep going.”
Now and then Gyp’s tail swished against my back. He was making impatient sounds in his throat, as if anxious to get to wherever we were going.
“Let’s have a go,” said Johnno again.
I changed over with him, the boat moving slightly under us.
Johnno sat down. “If you keep me lined up with the channel light it should be about right,” he said.
I sat in the stern with my head in my hands. It struck me that I was a fool to run away. After all, I could have worked somewhere to pay for Moloney’s glasses and could have apologized and put up with a hiding. But then there was Johnno. It didn’t surprise me that Johnno was determined not to go back. He had been thrashed at home and at school for as long as I had known him—and as far as I could see, he had seldom deserved it. Now he had hit back. It was the end as far as he was concerned.
I said, “Eileen told me that after you had gone he sat with his head in his hands wishing
he had never done it.”
“My dad?”
“Yes.”
He sat with the oars raised, looking beyond me. He said presently, “He’s belted me dozens of times.”
“He’s had plenty to worry about,” I said, repeating remarks of my father’s.
“I dare say,” Johnno admitted. I thought he was reconsidering things, but he suddenly struck hard with the oars and I saw there was no hope of going back. I leant on my knees again. Since I’d stopped rowing it seemed much colder. I looked back over my shoulder. The house lights and even the pier lights had gone. I looked away, then looked back again, but sure enough they had gone. Beyond Johnno’s head was the channel light flashing brightly. Westward I could see lights far off on the other side of the bay. A funny thing that, I thought: we were closer to the east side, but we could see nothing of it.
“Anyhow,” said Johnno, “I’d never get to the high school now. Probably I’d have to keep working at Digger Hayes’.”
“You passed your Merit, and Miss Beckenstall would always help.”
“He’d never let me go after what happened.”
“My father says he was always keen for you to have a good education.”
“He always said he was keen, but he bashed me so much when I didn’t know things that I couldn’t think—that’s true, Charlie, I couldn’t think. It was the same with old Moloney. Only Miss Beckenstall was any good.”
Johnno had paused again with the oars raised. He said all at once, “Why can’t we see the pier lights?”
“They’ve dropped out of sight,” I said. Then I realized this was a stupid remark.
“Some of the stars have gone too,” said Johnno.
I turned round. The stars low in the sky were blotted out, but higher up they were bright. A slight breeze passed us, then dropped off, then came again, blowing off the land very gently. Johnno was still sitting with the oars raised.
All the Green Year Page 15
