by Joy Dettman
Heat and dust and flies and fools, and he the greatest fool of all. A foolish move, coming to Mallawindy. And he’d known it. Perhaps he would have taken her home. Perhaps he would have, in time, but his boy had revelled in the freedom. How he had thrived, for a time.
Determined Jillian. She’d slipped the belt of her chenille gown through the flat iron handles, knotting them tightly so her fingers might not change her mind and she’d climbed through the railing and drowned in six feet of water.
Malcolm glanced at her stone as he placed the small posy down. She had loved flowers. He never came here with an empty hand, but not once had he bought her flowers while she lived, bought her some colour. So much more he could have done to help her make the transition. Sad, really, how we need to lose those near to us to realise just how dear they were.
He moved to his son’s grave. No flowers, but a groan escaped his throat. He closed his eyes, pressing his fingers to them as he thought of his son. So tall, so fine, and if not a conventionally handsome lad, he had epitomised perfection in Malcolm’s eyes. A miracle, born of two plain and lonely people who had married because it had seemed like the correct thing to do at the time. Both unattached in their mid-thirties, mismatched certainly, but their embarrassed fumblings had somehow given their boy a brief life.
Malcolm felt an internal blush begin. He’d been a late starter in the sex stakes, his only experience with women gained in his unlit marital bed. Each lusty scene in his novels had, to a greater or lesser degree, been taken from his own limited marital experience. A shy lover, Jillian had refused to remove her nightgown, had never allowed him to see her unclothed.
As he stepped back from his son’s grave, he heard the movement of gravel behind him, and for a moment believed it was Jillian rolling over, turning her back again.
Then that voice. ‘Good morning, Mr Fletcher. We’ve got a lovely day for a change.’ Ellie Burton had three children sleeping in this place.
‘Mrs Burton.’ He replaced his glasses. ‘Yes. Indeed it is a lovely day.’
‘I suppose you heard about it not being Jack that they found,’ she said.
‘Indeed I did,’ he said. ‘Indeed.’
She looked well this morning, due obviously to the fact that her absconding husband was no longer only a collection of bones. Malcolm watched her walk down a gravel path to a stone and place flowers there.
LIZA, LINDA, AND PATRICK. LOVED CHILDREN OF JACK AND ELLIE.
All in together, he thought as she placed her palm on the stone, smiled, then she saw him watching and turned her smile on him.
‘There’s something . . . something comforting about knowing where they are, isn’t there?’ she said.
‘Indeed there is, Mrs Burton.’ He found conversations with this woman difficult, so he usually agreed, whether he agreed or not.
‘I asked Father Fogarty if I should . . . could put Jack’s name on the stone. It might make it easier for me to accept that he’s . . . gone.’
Malcolm nodded. A very strange woman. Didn’t want her husband found dead in his underpants and sock, but apparently she had no problems in burying him. He shook his head and stood on, his eyes roaming this sad little place.
A hundred and fifty years ago the Catholic and the Anglican dead had been well separated, but necessity moved them closer each year. People kept dying, would continue dying, until only a gravel path marked their religious dispute. Mallawindy’s forefathers had not been far-seeing. Perhaps they hadn’t expected the town to survive, and thus produce such a field of the dead. No doubt if the ghosts walked, there were some rare old brawls at night between the orange and the green, sleeping toe to toe.
Ellie finished with her praying, walked back to join him in no-man’s land.
‘Are you on foot, Mrs Burton?’ He pointed to his car.
‘Oh, you’ve got your licence back. That would be lovely. Thank you very much, Mr Fletcher. It’s a long walk from town, but it was such a lovely morning, I had to come out and see them.’ They walked to the metal gate together. He held it open for her, saw her seated in his car. ‘Young Jeff says that with all that publicity last week, it’s pretty unlikely that Jack is going to come back.’ Perhaps she wanted him to disagree. He kept his silence. ‘He said that finding the gun in the river, and knowing how fond Jack was of his father’s gun, that it’s pretty certain . . .’
He couldn’t tell her what he had seen on Friday night. The match struck down on the box, the movement of the hand holding the cigarette, the silhouetted angle of the head. He hadn’t seen the face. Had not needed to see it. That fast escape. That tight-screaming U-turn on the narrow road, the gravel flying. Malcolm had seen it all before, and too many times, to be mistaken.
‘And his bank accounts too. He hasn’t made a withdrawal since before that last Christmas. I think that’s what’s got me convinced. Benjie’s convinced. He said that I have to accept it. And as he keeps on saying, Jack never had any money in his accounts. He was always waiting for the next payment to go in. I mean, what could he be living on? Benjie said he wouldn’t find work at his age, and he’s probably right, although Jack was a very good salesman. But, as he says, even the younger men can’t get work these days.’ Still Malcolm kept his silence. ‘And Father Fogarty too. He says it would be better for me to realise that Jack isn’t coming back this time.’
Father Fogarty probably had twenty dollars riding on Jack being dead, Malcolm thought. The old reprobate had been known to wile away many an hour in the hotel, watching the races with more interest than the average onlooker.
‘Jack hated cemeteries, you know. He didn’t come to any of the children’s funerals. He wouldn’t want to be here, but if I put his name on the children’s stone – sort of look on it as Bessy did when Bill died – she had him cremated then spread his ashes in the river, you know, but she got him a nice little brass plaque in that new wall.’ Ellie pointed to a green lawn, and a brick fence that went nowhere.
Malcolm nodded.
‘I’ve been thinking, Mr Fletcher, that not finding his body is . . . is maybe God looking after him, so he doesn’t have to end up out here.’
Or Satan, Malcolm thought.
‘He was Church of England, you know. He wouldn’t change, but he let me baptise all the children Catholic – except Annie. She would have been baptised that day – if she hadn’t spoken. I’ll never forget that day as long as I live. It was a miracle, and no two ways about it, and I don’t care what anyone says.’
‘Yes. Certainly. Indeed.’ The cemetery road was narrow. Malcolm considered attempting a doughnut turn, but thought better of it. He did a careful three-pointer and drove away, one eye on the rearview mirror.
‘Father Fogarty said it wouldn’t matter, I mean, Jack not being Catholic. I mean, adding his name to the stone . . . on the Catholic side. It’s not as if he’s – ’
‘Rightly so. Rightly so, Mrs Burton.’
‘I don’t know what I should do, I really don’t. I wouldn’t do anything until after Christmas, of course. It’s seven years this Christmas.’
‘It is indeed.’
‘Johnny says not to do it. He says it would be desecrating hallowed ground. He refuses to believe that his father is dead. And he says it like he knows he’s right too. I always had the feeling that him and Annie knew more than they were letting on about that night, but the two of them are like clams wearing padlocks.’
Clams wearing padlocks? He nodded. Maybe there was hope for this woman yet. He liked that line and tucked it away in his memory bank to use, perhaps, on another day. A good image that one.
‘We all believe what we wish to believe, Mrs Burton.’ He made a careful right-hand turn onto the highway and proceeded on. The police van cruised by, heading out of town. Once it was out of sight, Malcolm increased his speed.
‘He would have come forward, wouldn’t he? He wouldn’t have let me go through all of this worry.’
Malcolm found it impossible to agree with that one, so he turned the
conversation away from Jack. ‘John. He has cut his ties with the church, Mrs Burton?’
Ellie looked back towards the cemetery, waved a hand, blew a kiss.
‘Yes. Yes he has, Mr Fletcher. Completely. He refuses to set foot inside a church door. Except for Bronwyn’s wedding. And if I didn’t know better I’d think that he broke his foot that morning trying to get out of going to that too.’
‘What does he plan to do with his life?’
‘I’m sure I don’t know.’ She peeled away a broken fingernail, levelling it with her teeth. ‘I’m sure I don’t know. He told me a while back that the church was just a hole he’d crawled into – like an injured rabbit going to ground, he said, and he said that one hole was as good as another as far as he was concerned. He’s a worry to me, to tell you the truth. And with his broken foot, he can’t get away from the house much. We’re tripping over each other all day. I don’t know what I’m going to do with him.’
‘There are times, Mrs Burton, when we all need to first go back before we can go forward. And sometimes, having gone back, we realise what little we had to go back to.’
He was speaking from experience. Too many hours lately had been spent in the classroom, filling in for Norman O’Rouke. And he’d be back there again tomorrow. Too old for it now, he was out of touch with youth. Still, today he was free of the Wests and the Dooleys; Thursday was sports day and young Kerrie had roped in a dozen parents to assist her. Malcolm was on his way to Warran to view the new arrival, and the trio of tyrants.
‘Have you viewed the new granddaughter, Mrs Burton?’
‘Not yet. Benjie was going to drive me down on Sunday, but we had two cows calving, so we put it off. I should have gone down with Bessy on Monday, but I’ve been so busy, Mr Fletcher. Benjie saw her the day after she was born. They called her Bethany, you know. Bethany May.’
‘Yes. Yes. I am on my way there now. You would be most welcome to accompany me.’ Responsibility for another life usually kept his concentration on the road.
‘That’s very nice of you. I suppose I could go. I’d have to let Benjie know where I’ve gone, though.’
‘Certainly.’
‘Annie is home, you know. She up and left the hospital on Saturday night, Bessy said. Wouldn’t stay away from her boys, and it’s far too soon. They’ve kept the baby in for a while, because of its size, but she goes up there every day to feed it.’ She sighed, then added, ‘It’s lucky she’s near the hospital, really.’
‘Yes.’
‘She was born early, you know. Annie, I mean. I had to leave her at the hospital for months. She’d start picking up and then she’d have a setback. I think it might be right what they say these days on the television. You know, how you need to bond early with a baby. I never thought she’d live, Mr Fletcher, to tell the truth. I suppose I just sort of left her to God and the doctors, and expected every day I’d get word that she’d died. She was two-and-a-half months premature, just a little scrap of a thing barely three pounds. Bethany was almost five pounds. It makes a lot of difference to a baby, those few pounds.’
‘I’m sure it does.’
‘If not for Johnny, Annie would have died the night she was born. You know he held her all the way to the hospital? They said it was because of the hot night and that he’d held her to his warm little chest that had saved her life. He told the matron at the hospital that she had to keep her alive and that her name was Annie Lizabeth.’
She drew a deep breath and bit at a fingernail. ‘Poor little thing. She was so different to the others when Jack brought her home. So skinny and her little face looked so old; she used to just sit there, watching everyone with those big black eyes of hers. My goodness. My goodness. Where have all of the years gone to, Mr Fletcher? It seems like only yesterday.’
The car had stopped in front of Ben’s shop, but Ellie made no move to get out. Malcolm had never known her so talkative.
‘It’s funny, but I could always see the other children as grown up, as married, having their own children, but I could never see Annie as a mother. But my word! And isn’t young Tristan the wild one?’
‘Hopefully he will become tamer as he grows older, Mrs Burton,’ Malcolm said.
‘I don’t know how she’s going to cope with the four of them when she gets the new baby home. She’ll have to lock that baby away from young Tristan.’
‘She has a good husband.’
‘Oh, yes. Yes she has. He’s so good with those children, I’ll say that for him. He is a divorced man, of course. Not that I’ve ever held that against him. I get on quite well with David. He’s very respectful – and a very good dancer, you know.’
pride in achievement
Friday 22 August
‘A jerry hat trick, Mr West? I realise your grasp of the English language is far in advance of the other students, so can you enlighten them on the meaning of jerry hat trick?’
‘You, you fuckin’ jerry hat trick old dickhead.’
‘Ah, ah. We see the light, Mr West. We see the light. Geriatric: GERIATRIC.’ Malcolm spelt the word as he wrote it on the whiteboard in large red block letters, which was less effective than large letters gouged into the old blackboard with chalk. He missed his chalk, the squeal of which had sometimes been enough to cool his ire – or quell a riot.
‘Which differs considerably in meaning to a jerry hat trick. Can you give me the meaning of a common hat trick? Forget the jerry.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘No. Not quite. Anyone? Can anyone give me the meaning?’ Hands went up in his fifth and sixth grade rows. ‘Miss Dooley. Enlighten our friend, please.’
‘In cricket. Like when a bowler gets out three in three balls.’
‘Stupid moll,’ the pinheaded bastard in his grade six row sneered, and Malcolm had had enough for one morning.
The mentality of old Robbie West’s grandson was not dissimilar to that of his son’s. Malcolm had handled them. He’d taught a few to read and write. He sighed and made his slow plodding way to the six grader, on whom he tested out the concealed elbow jab to the ribs. And he had not lost his touch but, unlike his predecessors, this West kicked back, with big boot and mouth.
‘Fuckin’ touch me again and my father’ll fuckin’ do you.’
‘Ah, so you do have a father, Mr West?’
The barb missed its target. Children these days knew more, but much less; however, their ears were still sensitive appendages, and the West ears, ever large, offered an excellent grip. An ear in hand, Malcolm marched the kicking beast to the verandah, where he continued to twist the ear until the West stopped kicking to scream. Quite satisfying it was too, until the infant mistress saw to the somewhat swollen ear’s release.
Kerrie dismissed the senior students for an early lunch then sat on Malcolm’s table explaining the likely repercussions of corporal punishment, of manhandling students. Malcolm nodded, his attention divided between his smiling lecturer and his half cup of brandy, which, to the uninitiated with a poor sense of smell, might have been mistaken for weak black tea. Kerrie’s nose was good. She picked up his trusty green thermos and gave it a shake.
‘I could get into trouble for this too, Fletch – even if I could use a nip.’
He didn’t offer a nip, but reclaimed his thermos and topped up his cup. ‘Where is the fool of a man this week?’
‘That body they found at Albury – they think it’s Amy. He’s gone down there, and God knows when, or if, he’ll be back. And I’ve had it, Fletch.’
Malcolm said no more, but he thought of his own wife, and he thought of his days in the classroom after Jillian’s death, the small thermos filled morning and afternoon. Better to give up perhaps, take to one’s bed and weep – as O’Rouke had done. Let someone else carry the load. Perhaps. He had chosen a different method.
He glanced at his thermos, weighed it in his hand. A trip home may be in order.
That afternoon Kerrie moved her brood into the seniors’ room for a pictorial lesson, via vi
deo. Freed for an hour, Malcolm sat at his table, his attention divided between Kerrie and his tea cup.
A pleasant girl, artless, her face bare of make-up, she’d been covering for O’Rouke since his wife disappeared, but the strain was beginning to show. The West’s mouth flapping, again or still, she spoke to him, once, thrice, assuming he had a brain.
‘Leave the room please, Robert.’
‘Make me, you lezzo.’
Kerrie turned her back, turned the volume higher and the West turned up his own.
Unreasonable anger stirred in Malcolm’s gut. His blood boiled with anger. How was one supposed to teach these days? How was one expected to control the out-of-control? What this bastard of a being needed was a sound clip under the ear.
‘Outside, West!’ Malcolm bawled.
The infants cowered and the junior mistress gestured for him to give it up. But why should he allow this swine of a swine to control his classroom? Why should the Wests and their ilk be allowed to control the future? God help the world. God help this lass and others like her.
There were few in town Malcolm tolerated, even fewer that he actually approved of, but he respected this girl who had battled on alone for most of this year, and he wanted to murder the vile-mouthed little bastard, certain, at this moment, that he could, without compunction, knock his pinhead off and peg it to the school fence by its ears.
He stood and waddled to the whiteboard. No multicoloured chalk missiles awaiting his pleasure. He’d tossed a lot of them in his time. He picked up the whiteboard cleaner, a near relative of the old blackboard duster. It had a solid plastic base. Able to locate the West by its noise, Malcolm aimed the whiteboard cleaner.
And, my word, he had not lost his accuracy!
For three long minutes the class was convinced he had committed murder. Blinds rattled to the ceiling and the watchers groaned at the abrupt loss of a video, while five pinheaded, big-eared, big-footed Wests emerged from various seats to bewail the loss of their relative. By the time Kerrie had stemmed the bleeding and taped the wound, the beast of grade six was stirring into open-mouthed silence.
