The Cartographer

by Peter Twohig

  When I sat back and looked at the map I was relieved to see that it included all the features it needed. First the streets, some wide and some narrow — those were the lanes. Then the map had two lots of tramlines: Church Street, where real trams went, and King Ralph Street, where there were tramlines that hadn’t been used for years. The map also had a lot of drawings, because a map needs them. I had never really drawn anything for a reason before. I had drawn a dragon on the laundry wall, and told Mum that Jimmy Carson from across the street had done it. I drew a dragon on my bedroom wall as well, and told Mum that Jimmy had drawn that one too. I also found a nice bit of wall in the kitchen that looked big enough for a dragon, though I hadn’t begun that one. The map had to come first.

  So the map contained a drawing of The House, a drawing of the dog that I feared would turn up and rip me to shreds — his name was Jack the Ripper — and a drawing of the above-ground torture chamber with the double-decker doors. I agonised over whether to include flaming torches — after all, there hadn’t been any — and in the end decided to include one torch and a secret trapdoor in the floor that led to the kind of grey stone stairs that everyone knows lead to underground dungeons where torturing goes on. I included an arrow that pointed to the sign that said Kipling Lane and at the other end of the arrow I made a print of If by painting on the raised brass letters with blue watercolour paint and pressing it against the map. Without meaning to I had created a secret, backwards version of If called fI, which was practically unreadable, but that was okay because it looked like a secret code. I made a separate map of the house, not only the bits I had seen, but the bits I had not seen, complete with a trail of blood and a purple face on the pillow that the lady’s face would have left when she turned into a ghost. The only thing missing from the map was the smell of the bedroom. It had smelt of … loveliness. It was a smell I wanted to possess. But I could never go back: I didn’t want to end up with a purple face.

  The map had another purpose. I thought it might help me figure out where the hell Dad had gone. I knew it was no good asking. When you’re a kid there are three kinds of questions: the kind that get answered just to shut you up — they better not be important questions; those that are ignored altogether — this includes most of the questions I have ever asked about relatives; and the kind that can get you a thick ear — the rest. But maps could be used for finding all kinds of things — and maybe people — as well as avoiding them. I got Dad’s Triumph Manual and copied the picture of his bike onto the map. Then I wrote Dad, where are you? It was a start.

  Somewhere, I could hear Mum crying, and I wondered if she was crying because I was. Then I remembered that Dad had become a kind of ghost too. It was a day for crying all round.

  3 Finders keepers

  Next day, I slept in like mad and got up just before lunch, feeling like I’d been run over by the South Yarra tram. Some time during a bad night I had decided to bite the bullet and tell Mum what I had seen.

  I found her in the kitchen making pancakes. The bloke on the wireless was going on about the murder in Kipling Street, and the paper that was lying on the table said: RICHMOND MURDER. I’d been hoping that if I told her she could make one of those anonymous phone calls to the police, letting them know where they could find the body and so on. But somehow they had found out already.

  Now I had a different reason to tell her about it. I was worried about the bloke who did it catching up with me, and I was hoping that if she knew about the problem, she might be able to tell me what to do next.

  I sat down at the table and waited while she organised some pancakes for me. I felt sure that her knowing about the murder would make it easier for me to break the news to her. But the conversation didn’t go according to plan, and I had been crazy to think it would.

  ‘Hey, Mum, you know that murder down in Kipling Street?’

  Bright and cheery, that’s the way to tell your mum you witnessed a murder.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘I saw it.’

  ‘What d’yer mean, you saw it? Saw what?’

  I had thought she was in a good mood — first, because she had tried to make pancakes for breakfast, and second, because some of them worked; but I was wrong.

  ‘I saw the bloke do it … kill her.’

  ‘Don’t make up stories.’

  ‘I did, Mum. I saw it through the window.’

  ‘Then how come I read that it happened on the second floor?’

  ‘I climbed a ladder.’

  ‘I’ll climb your ladder in a minute.’

  That left Granddad.

  Despite all the trouble I had gone to to ensure that I would never go back to the House Down Kipling Lane, even making a map that would show how to avoid accidentally going there, I had to go back — for my bag. The bag had all my treasures in it; well, it had my explorer’s things in it, and they were treasures to me.

  I did not need the map to find my way there; it was still in my memory — funny, that, I thought to myself as I walked along, keeping an eye out for anyone who looked as if they wanted to murder me. I went back via Kipling Lane, of course, as adults (unless they’re drunks) never use lanes. And when I arrived, I ducked under the top half of the gate and pushed on into the jungle. When I got close enough to the house to see the windows, I crouched behind some bushes to watch and make sure the coast was clear.

  As I sank back into the shadows and sat on a clump of bush that smelt like onion, I thought of Tom and how he would have loved the whole adventure. He would have loved the smell of the onion bush, too — everyone said we had noses like bloodhounds. He would have loved the little house that I had found. It was in front of me and to my right. Even though I couldn’t smell it, I imagined I could. It had been wonderfully woody, like a friendly forest. It would have made a great clubhouse for the Commandos, the club Tom and I had formed with Charles Dixon, Johnno Johnson, Luigi Esposito and Douggie Quirk. Our clubhouse for the time being was Charles’s garage, but it was not a great clubhouse, having no space to put up maps and plans, and not much light. The Commandos had started out as a comic-swapping club, but pretty soon we had read each other’s comics and swapped each other’s Dinky cars and were looking for something else to do. There was spitting on the ferries from the railway bridge and playing chicken with the trams, but it wasn’t enough.

  It was spring, and we had been infected by the good weather and strange smells in the air, as all kids are. We were up for something a little more lively. During the rainy months we had been happy to hang out at the movies, and last summer we could always be found at the Richmond Baths, just a short tram ride away. Now we were talking about finding a new clubhouse. It was just like me to find one in a place that had both a murderer and a ghost. But the Commandos was a terrific club, and we were always on the lookout for new members, providing they were not Matthew Foster, or girls.

  September holidays were not all that long, which suited the Commandos just fine, as school was the only place we could have a meeting any time we liked, so we had one practically every five minutes. School was also the only place I could see Josephine Thompson, the most beautiful girl in Australia — though Tuesday Weld would have given her a run for her money. I had walked past her house plenty of times — it was on the way to the Commandos’ clubhouse — but had never seen her there. I had even thought of what I might say to her if I ever did see her, because the boys and the girls at school had separate playgrounds, so we hardly ever got a chance to talk. Though there was that time she yelled at me to throw her ball back to her from the boys’ area. She yelled: ‘Hey, Tom, will you throw my ball back, please?’ I wasn’t surprised, because none of the kids — apart from the Commandos — could tell us apart. I told Tom what she said, of course, but in my version of what happened, Josephine said my name. ‘She probably got us mixed up,’ said Tom. I hoped he was right.

  There was another reason the Commandos liked going over to Charles Dixon’s place for meetings. Charles’s mother was ve
ry beautiful — even Mum said so — and was the most famous person I had ever met, even more famous than Granddad. Granddad might have been in a lot of fights, and written some poetry too, but he has never been on television, whereas Mrs Dixon was the stand-in Darrods Girl on In Melbourne Tonight. That meant that when the Darrods Girl was under the weather or on holidays, Mrs Dixon would take her place at the Darrods Wheel. In the daytime, she was a manager at Darrods in the city, a department store for women that always smelt like heaven. In fact, some parts of the store get a nine on my smell scale. Funny thing was, whenever I saw her she always seemed to be either half asleep or so wide awake her eyes would be bright and shiny and she’d be practically shouting every time she spoke. Charles said that whenever she was on TV she’d get home in the middle of the night, and she’d be so fagged out the next day she’d have to perk herself up with a snifter of Gilbey’s and a couple of Bexes. And even when she wasn’t on TV, she’d be so tired from working at Darrods that she’d have the snifter and the pills anyway. I knew just what he meant. Mum was the same and all she did all day was push people around over at the match factory.

  While I was sitting there thinking about the Commandos and wondering whether a couple of Mum’s Bexes might perk me up as they did for Charles’s mum, something caught my eye in the bushes not far from me. I crawled over and had a peek and discovered that it was the thing the woman threw out the window before she had her run-in with the bloke. I sneaked back to my hiding spot and was just about to look at it more closely when a man came out of a side door of the main house and walked into the back yard. He was in shadow, so I couldn’t see him too well, but at least I could tell that it was not the murderer. He was interested in something on the ground. When he picked it up, I saw that it was my bag. He looked inside the bag, and opened all the pockets, then carefully placed it back on the ground, taking a look around, but not seeing me. Then he went back into the house, leaving me with the strangest feeling that he knew I had been in the place, without knowing anything about me.

  Although he’d gone back inside I didn’t move a muscle. I figured he’d left my bag there to see who would come and get it, the way you use a bit of steak on a string to catch yabbies. I was surprised to see him appear at the second-floor window and throw out something small and heavy-looking. The object landed quite close to where I was hiding in the bushes. Then he stood at the window for a few seconds looking out before retreating.

  I put two and two together and realised that if I didn’t get off my bum fast then not only was I going to lose the treasure I found fair and square, but I’d end up being given the third degree about the murder. I ran like hell, taking the treasure but leaving my bag behind. After yesterday, I knew that I wouldn’t have been able to get the bag and make it to the back gate without being seen, or worse, and so I decided to cut my losses, as Granddad told me many a player did at the Greek casino over the fish and chip shop.

  When I reached the torture chamber I ducked behind it and looked around the corner. I saw the bloke emerge from the house, go into the bushes and pick up the object he had thrown out the window. It looked like a wrapped-up book. Then he started fossicking around for the thing that yours truly now owned — good luck, mate. Thanking my lucky stars, I left. A close call a day keeps the doctor away — that’s what I say.

  When I got home I discovered that the thing I found was a soft leather wallet with four special pockets, and inside were four carved metal plates that reminded me of our brass plate of If, only thicker and heavier. The plates had been carved in a way that left some bits raised, though not all the bits were letters. I got out the watercolour paints and painted them the same way I painted If, and pressed them onto the map, one by one. Each of them was like a different part of a ten-pound note. One of them made the front of the note without the picture, and one the back of the note without the picture, and the other two were just the pictures by themselves. After playing around with them for a while, I managed to make a complete ten-pound note, though it was all black. I would have to get a look at a real ten-pound note to get the colours right. Mum wouldn’t have one, but Granddad would. He was always flush.

  I could see that I had found something that would be of great value to the Commandos, as the Commandos were always short of a quid. No more. We could now print our own money. I decided to let Mum know that I was off to Charles’s place and went across the street to Mrs Carruthers’s, where Mum had gone to talk about Dad.

  I knew something was wrong as soon as I walked into the house. The gloom behind the screen door had that serious, velvety look about it, and when I opened it, the door moaned in a whinging, warning way. As I stepped into the homey-smelling dimness, the air seemed to give my chest a little push, as if to tip me off. I knew the ladies had heard me coming because they had stopped talking, a sure sign that they were talking about me — make that about Tom and me — and wondering what to do with me. I had become one of those kids you had to do something about.

  When I got into the kitchen, I saw that as well as Mrs Carruthers and Mum, Mrs Hutchinson, the well-known witch, was there. At least that’s what Dad called her. She lived next door to us and was tall and slim, and wore black clothes. All three women were smoking cigarettes, and Mrs H stubbed hers out very slowly as she looked at me, as if she was thinking of chopping me up and shoving me into her oven. She was smoking Ardath, which has a particularly sickly-looking packet, a sure sign that she was not normal. Mum’s Black & White packet was much more stylish. Mrs C had no cigarette packet, which told me she was on the bot, or smoking OP’s — Other People’s — which was also one of Granddad’s favourite brands.

  ‘Well, speak of the devil,’ said Mrs C, who was a bit of a wag.

  ‘G’day, Mrs Carruthers. G’day, Mrs Hutchinson. Mum, I’m just off to Charles’s place for a while. Then I thought I’d visit Granddad for the night, if that’s okay.’

  Mum just nodded, and gave me one of those smiles that has no smile behind it. Mrs H gave me one of her special tired looks, the one that means: What, are you still here? Only Mrs C seemed to be in the mood for a chat.

  ‘How is your grandfather these days? Still gettin’ up to mischief?’ she asked.

  I didn’t know which particular piece of mischief she was talking about, but I knew the correct reply.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Tell him I said hello, love,’ she said. ‘Tell him I said not to be a stranger.’

  I nodded and left. Everyone in the street knew Mrs C was keen on Granddad, but I don’t think anyone knew about his next-door neighbour, Mrs Morgan. The air seemed to be pushing at me again, so I turned and let it guide me out.

  Charles was happy to see me, but even happier to see the money stamps.

  ‘Geez, where’d ya get ’em?’ he asked me with a look that was worth ten bob.

  ‘Found ’em.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Down the tip.’

  ‘Wow, someone threw ’em away. What a dill!’

  ‘One born every day,’ I agreed.

  Formalities out of the way, we settled down to the business of making money with his paint set.

  ‘So,’ said Charles, once we’d got our production line going, ‘didja hear about the murder?’

  ‘What murder?’

  I went to stay at Granddad’s place for the night. Mum had given up caring where I went or what I did, and I was worried that the murderer was going to get me at any tick of the clock. If I was with Mum, she’d be no help at all and would probably end up getting killed as well. But there was another reason I wanted to see Granddad. I reckoned there was an even chance that Granddad might have heard something on the grapevine, whatever that was. And if he hadn’t, well, he had Blarney Barney working for him, and he was the kind of bloke who’d do anything for me, not that I’d ask him, though Granddad might. I took the tram up to Granddad’s street. In the old days, Tom and me always went to Granddad’s on our bikes, but not long after the turns started, I had a bad bike crash wit
h a fat lady who was coming out of the post office — though it’s all a blank to me — and Mum and Dr Dunnett banned me from riding. So my bike — and Tom’s — sit in the dark in Dad’s motorbike shed, waiting for me to take them for a spin around the block when no one’s looking.

  When I got to his place Granddad wasn’t home. I could wait for him inside, of course — I knew where he hid his key — but I had a pretty good idea where he might be. I knew that in his spare time Granddad often went next door to be with his best friend, Mrs Morgan. I had known her all my life, and had always thought it would be a good idea to call her Aunty Vera, but while Nanna was alive she didn’t think that was proper, and after Nanna died she still didn’t think it was proper, though I sensed that it had nothing to do with Nanna. But Mrs Morgan was one of the closest pretend relatives I had, so I often forgot and called her Aunty Vera by mistake, and she didn’t seem to notice. She was definitely one of the nicest people I knew, and took my brother’s death harder than most of the people in the family.

  I knocked on Mrs M’s door and yelled ‘Hello!’ so she wouldn’t have a heart attack when I walked in on her. She called to me to come in, and I found her and Granddad in the living room, sitting in the lounge chairs and having a sherbet, which is something Granddad rarely did when he was out and about, but mainly when he was at home or at Mrs Morgan’s. In fact, I’ll lay odds that few people had any idea that he liked a beer.

  ‘What’s up, young feller?’ asked Granddad.

  I sat on the sofa and looked at them. I didn’t know where to start, or even if I should tell Mrs Morgan.

  ‘Rough day,’ I said, flicking the leaves on a new pot plant.

  ‘Well, let me tell you, they don’t get any better,’ said Granddad, who never misses an opportunity to give the young feller — me — a bit of wisdom.

  ‘Don’t tell him that, Archie. Don’t listen to him, dear. And go and get yourself some lemonade out of the fridge.’