The History of Mischief

by Rebecca Higgie

  ‘I’ll explain later. Just go out,’ Kay says.

  Grandma smiles weakly and nods.

  ‘Come on, honey,’ Lulu says. ‘David, front office, and stay there.’

  Stupid adults. I knew they wouldn’t let me stay. I dropped my bag on the letter on purpose. I get it when I pick up my bag.

  I run to the disabled toilet and lock the door. Lulu asks me to come out but I tell her I need to go to the toilet. She stays outside for a while, talking to me. I keep telling her I’m fine until eventually, I hear her ask a nurse to keep an eye on the door. She tells me she’ll be back. She’s going to have a chat with David.

  The envelope has the word Harry on it. The handwriting looks familiar.

  The Letter

  Harry, my darling boy,

  For years now, you’ve been asking about the History. Long ago, I decided that the truth should die with me. But recently, I’ve come to realise that would be yet another theft. I feel responsible to tell the truth behind the histories I stole from other people. I feel responsible to you.

  So I have written you another history, a History of The History of Mischief.

  I hope you see that my love for you was the only thing I never lied about.

  Please forgive me.

  Your Mum,

  Elizabeth Stewart

  The History

  I was born at a lighthouse in 1950. My father was a lighthouse keeper. He named me Louise, Lou for short. My sister followed two years later. Chloe. Except for the eyes – mine blue, hers brown – and my freckles, we were identical. No one believed we weren’t twins.

  The closest town, Augusta, was ten kilometres away. In my early years we rarely visited. My town, therefore, consisted of the lighthouse and the three cottages that housed the keepers and their families. Alongside us was a kindly middle-aged couple named Cliff and Molly, and an angry widower and his son. For many years, I thought the son’s name was ‘boy’, for his father only ever addressed him as such. I was ten, and he eleven, when I learnt he was named after his father: Alexander. He acted like the tyrant of his namesake, forever barking orders at his son in an angry mix of English and Greek.

  The Leeuwin Township of Light was regulated by the demands of the lighthouse. The keepers worked four-hour shifts – four on, eight off. Meteorological readings were made every three hours, starting at 9 am. Equipment was checked and kerosene poured into jerry cans and lugged up the 176 steps to the lantern above. The metal fittings and the lantern’s giant lead crystal lens were polished. Everything was cleaned.

  Our nights were marked by the lantern. It filled our homes with a sudden flash of ethereal light every 7.5 seconds, so strong it pierced the curtains. If we couldn’t sleep, Chloe and I would sit at the window, our backs to the lighthouse, and watch its spotlight run across the faraway cliffs covered in bush. Roly-poly hills, my father called them. We imagined all the things the light was chasing: kangaroos, possums, the ghosts of shipwrecks past. It was the heartbeat of the lighthouse, pulsing strong.

  Here, stories became currency. Books were scarce, the nearest library fifty kilometres away in Margaret River. When there was work to be done, Father promised stories in exchange. He shared stories of his childhood: football, dances, scoping out caves, and hunting quokkas back when the marsupials lived in Augusta’s forests.

  One day, Molly gave Chloe a book on balloonists. We loved the book so much, Father bought us bubble wands from the general store in town. Together, the three of us stood at the top of the lighthouse, the crystal lens twirling above us, blowing ‘balloons’ into the wind. Our first attempt was thwarted; the wind just blew the soap back in our faces. The second, we went up on a day so calm that the meeting of the Southern and Indian oceans, which clashed against each other before our lighthouse, could barely be seen.

  It was that day that it was first said. Alexander Senior, upon finding us on the balcony, growled, ‘What you mischiefs doing up here?’

  We laughed and fled down the stairs. We became mischiefs. We did mischief things. We played tricks on visitors by never being seen together, appearing far from where the last one had been, and making them think there was one girl who could just appear out of nowhere. One of them, a fellow from the meteorological department, called Chloe a ‘panther’ with her black hair and seemingly incredible speed. I shortened it, a nickname shared only between us. We signed secret notes to each other as ‘A. Mischief’ and ‘Pan’.

  As we got older, we took our mischief to school. We often rode to town, Alexander Junior in tow but never welcome in our conversations. If we were lucky, whoever wasn’t on shift would take us in Cliff’s salt-sprayed ute. When winter came, the rains made travelling on the hilly roads dangerous. We stayed at home. Letters were sent from the School Board, informing our parents of the compulsory nature of attendance. Fines were mentioned.

  Soon after, Mother sent us to the lighthouse to speak to Father.

  ‘Darlings. You’re going to stay. With Aunty June. And Uncle Martin. In town,’ he said through laboured breaths. He was winding the crank handle that raised the giant weights through the centre of the tower and set the lens turning.

  ‘Just. During the rains. A few weeks. For school.’

  We nodded but knew the truth: Mother’s nervous episodes were increasing.

  Alexander Junior was to stay. Alexander Senior cared not for fines.

  Mother was a cloud that hung over those happy days. People said she had a nervous disposition, which I understood as ‘gets headaches and sleeps a lot’.

  Our first stay with Aunty June and Uncle Martin, who ran a butcher in Augusta, was justified as ‘for school’. This was used the next few times, until eventually the pretence was dropped and ‘Mummy needs rest’ was given instead. From then on, we only returned home for the holidays. Though we missed our lighthouse life during term, we didn’t mind so much. Uncle Martin was endlessly jovial, a giant Frenchman who found every opportunity he could to compliment me on my French name. He took us fishing on the weekends. We’d dangle our legs in the water from the precarious flying fox that hung across the bay and listen to his stories about the war.

  Aunty June drove us up to Margaret River to visit the library every fortnight. There, I met Henry. I didn’t think much of him. I was eight, he was eight. He had a book I wanted.

  ‘I was looking for that. Could I have it please?’

  ‘Sure!’ he said, happily giving it to me. ‘My name’s Henry!’

  I took the book. ‘My name’s Lou.’

  Aunty June called me over and told me off for talking to strangers. I’d never heard the word ‘stranger’ before, except in books. Strangers in books were unknown and dangerous. I looked at the happy boy and wondered what made him strange.

  Next week at school, our teacher came in with an arm around the strange boy.

  ‘Class, we have a new student. This is Henry Byron. Say good morning, class.’

  The class droned, ‘Good morning, Henry.’

  ‘Henry, why don’t you tell the class about yourself?’ the teacher said. ‘Don’t be shy.’

  His words came out in a stream. ‘My name is Henry! I come from Perth. I live with Mr and Mrs Byron. They have a dairy and they taught me how to milk cows. I love books and music. I learnt how to play the piano at Sister Kate’s, which is where I used to live. I used to have a mum and dad but not anymore.’

  Sweetly, the teacher said, ‘Mr and Mrs Byron are your mum and dad now.’

  He nodded, slowly, as if unsure. He took the empty seat at the back.

  The kids at school called him names like ‘abo’ and ‘coon’. They were said in the same teasing tone as ‘wog,’ which was directed at Alexander Junior in the playground. But these words were dropped into the hushed conversations of adults, something I hadn’t heard before. Some women spoke loudly, as if they wanted to be heard: ‘Bless the Byrons. Very charitably minded.’ ‘So lucky, the poor mite. Bless him.’

  At first, I didn’t know why Henry was different
. He was cheerful and liked the same things as us. I knew what an Aborigine was, but he was lighter skinned than Alexander Junior and only a little darker than me. I didn’t understand what all the fuss was about. Though the gossip about him died down, I’d been quick to learn. In the eyes of the world, I was better than him. And that was a nice feeling, to be better than someone. Especially a boy.

  In 1961, everything changed. The summer was uncharacteristically hot, even at the lighthouse. Father didn’t send us back up to Augusta when school started, as if he knew what was coming. A few years prior, the Forest Department banned people from backburning on public land, but hadn’t kept up with their own schedule. The dried leaves, fallen branches and wasted trees collected in mounds around the living forest.

  No one knew how it started. It could’ve been a cigarette or a bolt of lightning. Whatever it was, something ignited in the dry earth. It caught with the fragrant oil of the eucalyptus, and lit the world on fire.

  We stood at the top of the lighthouse, watching the spotlight roam across an entire valley ablaze. Father had one arm around me, one around Chloe. In the bush, fire was part of life. But this was an inferno so bold it crept up on the ocean.

  Chloe leaned in close. ‘Daddy, will it reach us?’

  ‘No, darling,’ he said.

  It seemed to span from one side of the coast to the other.

  ‘What if it does?’

  ‘The lighthouse will protect us. Stone doesn’t burn.’

  The fire tore through a hundred thousand acres and completely flattened the nearby town of Karridale. Remarkably no one died, though many lost their homes. When we visited Aunty June and Uncle Martin, we found the Byrons and their seven cows. Their farm had been badly damaged.

  Father offered to help Mr Byron clear some debris. Chloe stayed while I went with Father and Mr Byron. Henry had walked ahead, Mr Byron said. I could just make him out, sitting by a timber skeleton that had once been a shed. He sat in the ash, his back to us.

  ‘Louise, will you go and see if Henry’s alright?’ Mr Byron asked. ‘Fire’s really torn him up.’

  I nodded though I didn’t want to. I approached him. ‘Hey.’

  Henry didn’t look up. He muttered only ‘hey’ back. He was playing with the charred chunks of wood. He had charcoal smears up his arms.

  Henry was different now. After his arrival, his enthusiasm and cheerfulness faded. He was quiet, he read alone. He had, like me, learnt his place.

  He dragged charcoal along his arm, watching it blacken his skin. He rubbed it between his fingers, and then touched his face. He tenderly smeared it over his cheek and stared into the twisted dead forest that stretched out before us.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

  He seemed lost somewhere else. His voice was soft when he said, ‘Mum used to do this. Every morning.’

  ‘Why?’

  A tear ran through the soot on his face. ‘So they wouldn’t take me.’

  As an eleven-year-old, I didn’t really know what it meant. I knew he’d said something taboo, one of those things you just don’t talk about. I ignored it.

  ‘Sorry about the farm.’

  With the fires out, Father could no longer find an excuse to keep us at the lighthouse. Mother was clear. Chloe and I were sent back up to Augusta. The Byrons moved into a friend’s house between my uncle’s butcher and the hall while their farm was repaired. The hall had a piano, and music soon joined the main street chorus of birds and summer crickets. Henry broke in and just played. I snuck behind the hall and sat by one of the windows. It was the first thing I ever did without Chloe.

  I started taking books down to the hall, reading as Henry played. I got braver, sitting under the window closest to the piano, my back against the wall, feeling the clang of the keys vibrate through my chest. As soon as he stopped, I waited to see if he’d play something else. One, two, three, I’d count. On four, I ran back to the butcher.

  Then one day, I fell asleep to something gentle. I woke to a creak, saw him climbing out the window. We stared at each other. He jumped down and ran away. He didn’t play again for four days. On the fifth, I cornered him at school. I didn’t even say hello, I just said, ‘You play piano very well.’

  He looked afraid. Said nothing.

  ‘Please keep playing. I won’t listen if you don’t want me to.’

  I was lying of course. I would listen, just maybe not from the window. His eyes then dropped to the book in my hand: The Jungle Book. They lingered a while. I remembered his eager proclamation on the first day of school: ‘I love books and music.’

  His eyes jumped back to my face. ‘Please don’t tell on me.’

  It seemed a silly thing to say. Everyone knew it was him. Had no one told him how much they enjoyed his music, how they left their windows open to hear him?

  ‘Promise,’ I said.

  That afternoon, I heard him playing. I went to the hall, left my book there for him. At school, I caught his eye. He smiled sheepishly. The Jungle Book found its way back to me, by a tree behind the butcher, three days later.

  We became friends through the secret exchange of books. For five years, we barely spoke to one another. Just books, left on top of a bin near the butcher, on fence posts at the rebuilt farm, snuck into bags at lunchtime. In ’64, when the Blackwood River flooded, library books I left for him were taken away by the waters. When they receded, he left a small envelope of money with a note: ‘Sorry, from The Blackwood.’ I left a book with a message inside: ‘All is forgiven, from A. Mischief.’ Chloe would’ve been so upset if she knew: mischief was our secret. I felt a little guilty, but Henry, I knew, wouldn’t tell.

  Though a small library opened up in Augusta, we both began to frequent the ‘big library’ in Margaret River once we started high school. I selected things I thought he might like, and he for me. High school was much larger than primary school, bringing together kids from all over the region. Buses roamed the highways. I was in a separate class to Henry, so my only time with him was on the bus, stealing glances between stops.

  It was 1965. We were fifteen. Our very occasional conversations were monitored. Aunty June said it would be best if I made friends with someone else.

  Then Chloe got sick. She was sent back to the lighthouse to recover and spent weeks in bed. Away from my fellow mischief, I searched for another.

  I snuck up on Henry on the bus.

  ‘Have you ever heard the ground whistle?’

  He glanced nervously at our classmates. ‘No.’

  ‘I can show you.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ he said, and returned to the book I’d left in his bag the day before.

  But then, as we got off the bus, he let his words drop beside me as he walked past. ‘Yes please.’

  That afternoon, I told Aunty June I was going to the library. Then I made my way to the Byrons’ farm. Henry was waiting by the milking shed. He smiled at me. I smiled back. We set off for Jewel Cave.

  Jewel Cave had only been discovered in 1957. Just two years later, it was open to the public. After a long night shift, Father sacrificed his sleep to take Chloe and me into the underground cathedral of sparkling jagged teeth and stone waterfalls. The monstrous black root of a karri tree penetrated deep into the cave in its hunt for water. Another had done so centuries before and then died. Its root rotted and fell away, leaving a hole in the earth for intrepid cave hunters to find. It was this, the ‘Wind Hole’, that I promised was the ground whistling.

  It didn’t whistle, not really. But the cave breathed. Together, we stood over the padlocked grate that had been placed over the hole, and felt the cool air of the cave’s exhale.

  ‘How long has this been here?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘They found animal skeletons in the cave that were crusted over with crystals, so it must have been ages.’

  He smiled. He held his hand over the grate. I held my hands over too. Our fingers briefly touched. We pulled away. Blushed. Went home.

&
nbsp; These little incidents continued. Requests were left in books, notes of acceptance in others. Finally, he got up the courage to show me a cave he’d found in the hills that faced the lighthouse. We rode as far as we could and then walked, high up to a ridge of shallow blackened caves. We could make out the lighthouse and the clash of the two oceans. That day was particularly windy. The oceans hit each other with force, clearly marking the place where they met.

  ‘Like me and you,’ he said, pointing out to sea. ‘Two oceans, two worlds.’

  I smiled. I held his hand. He didn’t pull away.

  I loved him. He was gentle. He was clever. Our times together were marked by happy silences and tiny shy touches. Sometimes we talked about books or complained about our chores. Occasionally he spoke of ‘the time before’, when he lived at Sister Kate’s in Perth. It was an orphanage, he told me, but I later learnt it was a house where stolen ‘quarter-caste’ or ‘quadroon’ children were taken under the guise of assimilating them into white Australia.

  ‘They never told us what we were,’ he said one day. ‘We thought we were white kids, you know. I never realised what I was. Not till I got here.’

  Those conversations always made me awkward. I didn’t want to think about it. I told myself how light he was, how he lived with a white family now, in a white world. I never thought how the white world didn’t really want him.

  Our first embrace was behind the milking shed. Our first kiss was by the bins. Our first time was in the cave. We watched the oceans clash against each other afterwards and promised we’d love each other forever, silly young things that we were.

  By the time we turned sixteen, A. Mischief and The Blackwood had codes for everything: every meeting place, every date, every ‘I love you’. It seems inconceivable that we were able to hide what we were doing, and indeed it was. The land was vast, but the population small. Still, there was so much we managed to get away with by virtue of messages left in books and two rusty bicycles.

  The Byrons bought Henry a second-hand violin for his sixteenth birthday. He took it with him everywhere, even when milking the cows. Songs are like books, he said to me once. They tell stories.