by Gee, Maurice
‘We could swim here if it was summer,’ Colin said.
‘I never want to swim in this creek.’
They sat on the bank. ‘Mum and me are going to run away,’ Verna said.
‘I thought you said he’d find you?’
‘Not if we go far enough. Sometimes he goes away all night and all the next day. Next time he does that we’re going to get a taxi and go to Auckland. Then we’ll get the train to Wellington. Mum’s saving up.’
‘But I won’t see you.’
‘I know. But he says he’s going to kick Mum out and keep only me. He’s going to get a new woman, he says.’
‘Who?’
‘He won’t tell her. He says he’s got one sorted out but he’s got to get rid of the husband first.’
Colin knew. He could hardly breathe.
‘I think he’s talking about your mum and dad.’
‘Yes.’
‘What will you do?’
‘Tell them. I’ve got to tell them everything.’
‘Is he like this just because your dad bullied him at school?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And your mum used to laugh at him?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How can we make someone believe us?’
She told him about her life: how her mother and father used to work on the stage, Bette and Howard Barrowclough. They travelled around singing at concerts and private parties. Her father juggled too and did conjuring tricks, and he often toured primary schools, calling himself Doctor Chuckles.
‘He came to our school, when I was in the primers,’ Colin cried. ‘He balanced lots of chairs on his nose.’
‘That was his best trick. Mum couldn’t travel much after she had me. But my dad and her were always laughing. Dad used to throw me up and catch me on one hand, like on a chair, and I’d sit right up by the ceiling. Then he used to drop me and catch me by the floor.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He got sick. He died. And Mum got poor. So she had to marry someone else.’
‘Him.’
‘Yes, him.’
‘Now he’s after my mum and dad.’
They sat in the sun, side by side. After a while Verna lay down.
‘Are you going to sleep?’
‘I can’t sleep at night. I lie awake. I listen for him.’
‘I’ll watch. I’ll wake you up.’
He looked at her sharp face as she slept. It seemed to soften as her breathing grew deeper. A blackbird was singing high on the far bank, in a tree fern. The sun moved off the surface of the pool. Shade crept up his legs, and Verna’s too, but his body stayed warm in the sun. Verna’s hair shone. Her new-grown curls fell across her forehead. She’s going away, he thought, and was glad if it made her safe. The late afternoon train whistled at the crossing and he remembered how, on that first day, at the hut, another train had whistled and the fat man had asked him the time. Everything had changed on that day. He had changed. His mother and father had changed. It was like an open door and the fat man had come through from the dark place where he lived.
Colin touched the curls on Verna’s forehead. The blackbird stopped singing. He felt a thickening in the air behind him. He felt a coldness on his neck.
‘I thought I might find you here,’ the fat man said softly.
Colin turned around. He shrank inside but tried to keep from showing his fear.
‘Verna’s asleep.’
‘So I see. Like her, do you, eh kid? Like her curls?’ He stood in the half-shade at the top of the bank. Little round coins of sunlight lay on his face. He smiled and his teeth gleamed, wet with saliva. ‘Can’t say I blame you. Pretty curls.’
Verna was awake. Her eyes had opened once and then closed. Only her breathing had changed. It almost stopped.
‘I reckon you’re in love, kid.’
‘No,’ Colin said.
‘Sure, don’t pretend. Say it, eh.’
‘Not to you.’
‘Hey kid, you’re going to make me mad. And you can quit pretending, Vern. I know you’re awake.’
Verna sat up. ‘What do you want?’
‘Nothing much. Just if the kid here loves you, eh?’
‘Yes, he does. So leave us alone.’
The fat man smiled. The worm made a sudden upward twist into the sun. ‘Well, ain’t that peachy. Colin Potter loves Verna Muskie. If I had a knife with me I’d carve it on a tree.’
‘We’re not hurting anyone,’ Verna said.
‘Never said you were. Hey Vern, relax. I just come to find you. The party’s all over back there. It’s time we went home.’
‘Is Mum all right?’
‘Sure she is. What would happen to her? Funny, women, aren’t they kid? They get ideas in their heads.’
‘Don’t you touch us,’ Colin said.
‘Hey, I’m not going to touch you. I’m just going to tidy things up a bit. Now both of you follow me or else I’ll change me mind.’ He turned and started up the creek. Verna stood up and she and Colin followed. They kept as far back as they dared.
‘What’s he going to do?’ Colin whispered.
‘I don’t know.’
They went under the bridge, crossed the log, climbed the bank. Bette stood in the kitchen door, with her hand shading her eyes from the last of the sun.
‘Oh Verna,’ she cried, ‘where have you been? I’ve been so worried.’
‘Shut up, Bette. She’s all right. Go and finish the dishes,’ the fat man said.
‘Verna –’
‘Did you hear me or didn’t you?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry.’ Bette turned back inside and was busy at the sink when Colin and Verna came in. She had a pile of dirty plates beside her.
‘I’ll help, Mum,’ Verna said.
‘No you won’t.’ The fat man pulled a chair out from the table. ‘You sit there. And don’t you move. Stay where you are, kid.’ He went out and climbed the stairs.
‘Oh Verna, I told you not to upset him,’ Bette trembled.
‘I didn’t. We just went down the creek.’
They heard the fat man upstairs, walking in the bedroom. In a moment he came down whistling a tune – ‘Three Little Words’.
‘Well, Vern, here we go,’ he said.
‘What …’
‘We’re going to give you a haircut.’ He took his razor out of his pocket and opened the blade.
Bette started from the bench, crying, ‘No!’, but the fat man turned on her, quick as a cat. His good humour was gone. ‘Keep away,’ he snarled. Bette sank to the floor by the stove and covered her mouth. Verna could not move from the chair. Her face, usually pale, had gone even whiter. Colin took a step towards her.
‘You too, kid. Keep away.’ Then, like switching stations on the radio, he smiled. It terrified Colin. It seemed he could change into anything.
‘All I’m doing,’ the fat man said, ‘is trimming up me daughter. Sit still, Vern. Don’t want to nick you.’ He lifted a curl from her forehead and sliced it neatly off with the razor.
‘Here you are, kid. Like to keep it for a souvenir?’
‘No,’ Colin whispered.
‘Suit yourself.’ He dropped it on the floor. Then curl by curl, sometimes gentle, sometimes with a slash, he cut Verna’s hair, until it lay jagged, half an inch long, all over her head. He sighed when it was done, and smiled at Bette still crumpled by the stove. ‘Take a look, Bette. Good job, eh?’
‘Yes,’ Bette wept into her hands.
‘Look, I said.’ He was snarling again, and Bette took her hands away and looked at Verna blindly.
‘Yes. Yes.’
‘Think she’s pretty?’
‘Yes, she’s pretty.’
‘You’re lying, Bette. What I’ve done is make her ugly, see? Look at her. What is she, Bette?’
‘She – she’s ugly.’
‘Yeah, that’s right. And what about you, kid? Curls all gone. Do you still love her?’
Coli
n looked at Verna sitting in the chair with her eyes shrunken and her mouth wrung shut and a dead curl caught in the neck of her dress. Her hair was chopped off, but he knew that, yes, he loved her even more than before. In spite of that he knew what he must say.
‘No, not now.’
The fat man sighed. He sat down, closed his razor and laid it on the table. ‘There, you see, Bette, saved her from a fate worse than death. Get me a beer, eh?’
Bette struggled up and took a bottle of beer from the cupboard. She opened it and put it in front of the fat man, with a glass.
‘Thanks, sugar.’ He filled the glass and drank half of it in a gulp. ‘Leave the dishes. Come and sit on me knee.’ Then he saw Colin.
‘You still here, kid? I’m gettin’ a bit sick of the sight of you. Beat it, eh?’
Colin threw a last look at Verna in her chair. He went out of the kitchen and round the side of the house and ran home through the darkening streets.
Chapter 8
Flying Fox
One more chapter will finish our story. A night and a day and it was over – Colin, Verna, Laurie and the rest were free of the fat man. He nearly dragged them under but not quite.
Laurie was setting out to look for Colin when he saw him running up the street. He stood at the gate and waited. Laurie was unhappy at that time – he was unhappy with himself – and was close to taking it out on Colin.
‘Where’ve you been?’
Colin ran by him. He ran up the path, through the kitchen, into the bedroom, into a corner. Then there was no place to go. His mother and father crowded in the door.
‘Colin, what’s wrong?’
‘He cut her hair.’
‘Who? What are you talking about?’
‘Herbert Muskie cut Verna’s hair. With his razor.’ A strange thing – Colin called him Herbert Muskie from this time, as though they had moved closer and the fat man had a name.
He sat on his bed and cried. His mother came and put her arms around him.
‘Colin? Colin?’
‘Herbert Muskie cut Verna’s hair.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s cut it off the way it was before.’
‘He’s upset, Colin. Because of his mother.’
‘He’s going to get us all,’ Colin cried. ‘He’s getting even.’
‘That’s enough,’ Laurie said. ‘It must have been a joke. Herbie’s got a funny sense of humour.’
‘Dad …’
‘Or maybe he thought she needed it. Verna’s a bit too uppity. She’s full of herself.’
Colin could not believe it. There was no one now who would understand.
‘And I’ve just about had enough from you,’ Laurie said. ‘I want my tea, Maisie. I’m going out.’
‘Where?’
‘With Herbie. Into Auckland. He wants me to help him move some stuff.’
‘Laurie –’
‘He’s giving me a fiver. It’s money.’ He went to the door, turned back, found nothing to say. How unhappy with himself Laurie was. ‘So let’s have tea.’
He left the room and Maisie sat with Colin for a moment.
‘Don’t upset your father, son. I don’t like Herbie much either. But we’ll be finished with him soon. Your dad will find a carpentry job.’
‘Mum …’ He could not explain.
‘I know how much you like Verna. It’ll grow again.’
‘Don’t let him go with Herbert Muskie.’
Maisie stood up. ‘Now I’ve had enough too. You’re letting your imagination run away with you.’
‘Please, Mum.’
‘You needn’t come out for tea. We don’t want you when you’re like this.’
Maisie went out and closed the door. Colin felt as if he’d lost his parents. Herbert Muskie had them and was shifting them somewhere. He lay on his bed. He tried to think of something to do. Muskie was moving faster now. He was mad and clever, mad and sane; he slipped in and out. If Colin had not said that he did not like Verna any more, he might have killed her with his razor. What would he do to Laurie? Something much cleverer than that. Herbert Muskie would stay sane for that.
He heard his mother serving tea but did not go out. Lying in the dark, he heard them talking. Laurie even laughed once. It was a dreadful sound. Maisie washed the dishes. The dishes made a dreadful sound too. He wondered if Bette had got off Herbert Muskie’s knee and gone back to her own dishes. He wondered if Verna was still in her chair, staring at the wall.
A car came up the road. He knew the engine noise. It stopped at the gate and the horn honked, da-da-dee-da-da. Herbert Muskie played his tune.
Colin heard his father leave the house. He heard him walk down the path and could have leaned out and touched his hair. The car door opened. Herbert Muskie laughed. The door slammed. Colin heard the car move away and the engine noise grow fainter. It swelled a little, going up the hill to the Great North Road, then died out. His father was gone.
After a while his mother opened the door.
‘Are you awake, Colin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Come and have your tea.’ Her voice was kind but seemed to him very far away. He got up and went into the kitchen. She took his plate from the oven and put it in front of him: doughboy and stew. ‘Your favourite.’ He tried to eat. More oranges from Herbert Muskie were sitting in a bowl in the middle of the table. He put some stew in his mouth but could not swallow it.
‘It’s too much of that cake,’ his mother said crossly. ‘You’d better clean your teeth and go to bed.’
He took a lighted candle up the path, used the lavatory and sat there for a while. Wetas had crawled out on the ceiling and the light gleamed on their coal-black heads. Colin was frightened of them, but more frightened of Herbert Muskie, although he knew he would fight him now, he would bite and kick. But nothing of that mattered because he was too late.
‘Colin, hurry up. Don’t sit up there,’ his mother called.
He washed, he brushed his teeth, he went to bed, and must have been exhausted because he went to sleep – and when he woke everything changed, he was able to talk and act and do things at last. He woke with his mother sitting on his bed.
‘Colin,’ she said, ‘it’s two o’clock.’
‘Did Dad come home?’
‘No, he’s still out. Colin, I’m worried.’
‘Herbert Muskie’s got him. He’s getting even.’
‘What for?’
‘For Dad bullying him at school. And you laughing at him.’
‘But that was years ago,’ Maisie said. ‘What’s he doing, Colin? What’s he doing?’
‘He’s been after us ever since he came.’
He told his mother everything – the pool, the hut, the chocolate; and Mrs Muskie’s sovereigns, and taking the fat man’s shilling – although he called him Herbert Muskie now.
‘I was his accomplice,’ Colin said, ‘so I couldn’t tell you. I’m sorry, Mum. I didn’t know till later on he was after Dad.’
‘And me?’
‘Verna says you. Mum, he drowned his mother. He drowned Mrs Muskie.’
‘No. No. He loved her too much.’
‘That doesn’t matter.’
‘You saw him crying.’
‘He cried for her, but he killed her too.’
‘Oh, oh,’ Maisie wept.
‘And he brought you oranges. That was getting you.’
‘Oh, oh.’
‘Don’t cry, Mum.’
‘Where’s your father? Where’s he gone?’
They sat in the kitchen waiting. They tried to think of things to do – go to the Muskies’ house, call the police – but nothing would help until they found out what had happened to Laurie.
In the dark hours, well before dawn, they heard feet on the path. Laurie panted at the door. He opened it and almost fell inside.
‘Laurie,’ Maisie screamed.
‘I walked and ran,’ he panted. ‘All the way from Auckland. I walked and ran.’
‘L
aurie, what happened? Are you all right?’
‘I got away from him. I got away from Herbie.’
‘Laurie –’
‘Has he come here? I thought he’d come here?’
‘No one’s come. Oh Laurie, sit down. Thank God you’re safe.’
‘He nearly got me, Maise. I got away.’
They made him sit at the table. The stove was still warm. Maisie started it up and put water on for tea while Laurie told them what had happened in Auckland.
At first they’d gone to a friend of Herbert Muskie’s and had a few beers. (It was the man who had bought Laurie’s boxing cups but Laurie did not know that. Nothing was said about cups on this occasion.) Then they’d driven to a shed in Grafton and started shifting stuff from it to another shed in Morningside.
‘I didn’t like it, Maise. It was all sorts of things. Radios and electric irons and stuff like that. Whisky and tobacco. Cigarettes. There was even tins of salmon. Rounds of cheese. I started wondering if it was stolen. I asked Herbie what it was, but all he said was that it was Ron’s. Ron’s the other bloke, where we had the drink. Herbie says he’s got a shop and this was discount stuff he’d bought, and fire sale stuff. So I – I just went along with it, Maise. I didn’t want to make a fool of myself.’
They made half a dozen trips, with the car packed full. Then Herbert Muskie asked Laurie to drive.
‘He told me he might give me a job making deliveries, so I better start driving straight away. For practice, he said. It’s a good car, Maise. It’s great to drive.’
‘Oh Laurie.’
‘Yeah, I know. But I didn’t see what he was up to then. I just sort of got in and drove, out to Remuera, all the way. Herbie said he had a man to see. I thought that was funny. It was after midnight.’
They parked in the dark part of a street and Herbert Muskie told Laurie to wait. He got out and walked back up the road, fifty yards.
‘He was carrying this kind of roll. It was made of canvas. It looked like a toolkit, you know, small.’
‘He’s a burglar,’ Colin said.
‘Be quiet, Colin. Go on, Laurie.’
‘He went into a house – well, he went in the gate – and I waited a bit. I didn’t like it. I got out and rolled myself a smoke. Then I heard glass break. It was real soft. I hardly heard. So I walked back up the road to the house where Herbie was. There were no lights, Maise.’
