Thursday's Child

by Sonya Hartnett

  I was lying in her lap when Vandery Cable arrived at the Murphys’ wanting to see her, and she made to send me away. But, ‘Leave her be,’ said Mr Cable. ‘There’s nothing I’ll say that’s unfit for a child to hear.’

  So Mam held onto me and she and Mr Cable smiled tautly across the room. The morning sun was beaming in the windows and you could see a fog of dustmotes floating around him, surging if he moved. His wing collar was starched sharp and straight as the line of his nose. Mrs Murphy brought in a tray of tea things and went out again reluctantly and when Cable shook his head as Mam offered him a sandwich, not a single hair fell out of line. ‘I won’t keep you longer than I have to, Mrs Flute. But I thought it best to come here, to yourself, rather than to your husband. I’ve heard about what’s been happening.’

  Mam lowered her look, smoothed a ruckle in my sleeve. Mr Cable’s gaze dipped to me: I thought he was going to speak to me, for he opened his mouth – but shut it again suddenly, and instead turned solemnly to Mam.

  ‘I’ll be brief. I’ve a hay barn I’m not using, and not likely to use in the future. If you can arrange for pulling it down and shifting the timber, it’s yours.’

  Mam paused. ‘That’s kind of you, Mr Cable, but there’s no need. Court is selling the beef cows back to the stock-agent and we’ll be fixing things that way.’

  Cable shuttered his eyes. His eyes were – his whole face was – dark and shaded and watchful, despite the sunlight coming in. ‘Mrs Flute, I fear you’ll find your hopes frustrated. The agent won’t buy those cows for the price he sold them. I’ve my doubts he’ll take them off you at all.’

  ‘… Oh.’

  ‘I believe you already suspected as much.’

  Mam didn’t answer, stroking my cheek with the back of her hand.

  ‘The barn would suit your purpose.’

  She was staring at me emptily and it made me fidgety. ‘We do need timber, as you say.’

  ‘Your husband should see his way to accepting the offer.’

  Mam nodded, at me. ‘Yes. I’ll speak to him. He’ll accept gratefully, I’m sure.’

  ‘If he finds that difficult, tell him to consider it a favour, not a gift. Tell him I expect something in return, one day.’

  ‘That’s the wise way of putting it, I’m sure, sir.’

  The pig farmer stood, clutching his hat. ‘You’re a woman of sense, Mrs Flute. Good day.’

  He gave a stiff bow and went for the door, but stopped when Mam asked, ‘What shall we do with the cattle, Mr Cable?’

  ‘Keep them,’ he answered instantly. ‘There’s hungry times coming.’

  With that he left, bobbing another bow before closing the door.

  For the two weeks that followed I didn’t get off the couch where I had been lying, that morning, with my face in Mam’s hands. I became ill through and through, as if Vandery Cable had brought something contagious with him when he entered the room. I had visions, when I was feverish, of this deadly thing crawling from his mouth. He hadn’t opened it to speak to me, he’d opened it to release whatever it was that slithered in under my eyelids and swam around my body, blighting my limbs and bones and brain. For two weeks I lay prone, shivering when I was not sweating. I slept and mumbled in my sleep and had knotted, peculiar dreams. In my dreams I saw Da loom over me and held up my arms for someone who rippled away. I saw Tin and called his name and he turned to me a face distrusting and whiskery. I saw bizarre concoctions of people and animals. I saw Mr Cable many times, the contagious thing scuttling behind his teeth. I was never so sick that anyone prayed for my soul, but I was fragile enough to be left where I lay, tormented enough to be querulous, needy enough to have Mam sleep on the floor beside me. I had no strength, through those days, to care for anything anyone told me. Words littered the floor around my couch and during the worst of it I could hear them jawing and wanted the breeze in, to scatter them away.

  And then, one morning, I felt a spring of the couch gouging into my spine and knew I was getting better. I sighted, as if from a faraway hill, the child I used to be. A day later I could sit up and nibble; the day after that I walked wonkily to the outhouse, being ashamed, when healthy, to use the pail.

  Feeling better, I regretted those words I’d been deaf to, and hankered to hear them again. I knew things had been happening that I would have murdered to see. I was by myself and stranded, with only the impatient Mrs Murphy to answer my questions, and I listened to what she said like the religious to a gospel.

  ‘Devon went home a week ago, he’s camped in the shelter with your Da; the lice he’ll have caught, I don’t know. Your mother and sister and the little tyke left three days ago, as soon as the roof was put down. Phew, my girl, it’s time we got you in the tub. Shift yourself, you reek.’

  ‘And is Mr Murphy helping with the building?’

  ‘Well, he’s gone from dawn to dusk doing something, that’s all I know. No, listen: every man in the neighbourhood is doing what he can to get your family on its feet. There’s work going on every minute of the day. Your father, he’s miserable over not being able to pay them, but payment’s not what they want. People like to help each other when they can. That’s a ludicrous grin you’ve got on, girl, you look like a loon.’

  ‘I’m happy.’

  ‘Gone mad, is more like it. Your mother was determined you had the meningitis, you know. I said, You’ve not seen meningitis, Thora, if you picture that’s how it looks. Myself, I think you saw there was exertion on the horizon, and you were canny enough to plead infirmity.’

  ‘Oh, no, I wasn’t pretending! I would love to help with the building!’

  She tweaked my chin. ‘I know you would, dear, I was ragging you. Sit up so I can plump your pillow. You’d be in Heaven out there, getting under everyone’s feet.’

  ‘Have you seen the new house, Mrs Murphy?’

  ‘I haven’t, but I’ve seen the dust of it in Mr Murphy’s clothes. I imagine it’s as handsome as a house can be.’

  ‘And big?’

  ‘Well, there’s a good amount of wood in a barn. You’ll have to wait and see.’

  I scowled. ‘How long do I have to wait?’

  ‘Until the waiting’s over.’

  ‘But I’m missing everything,’ I sulked. ‘I missed out seeing the barn get pulled down. I’m missing out seeing the house get put up. I’m missing everything!’

  ‘Boo hoo. You shouldn’t be such a germy thing then, should you.’

  ‘I want to go home!’

  ‘That’s gratitude, you little gobshite.’

  ‘I miss my Da.’

  Back she shot, ‘I hope he’s remembering to miss you.’

  Two long days later I was freed: Mr Murphy put me on his shoulders and carried me, high-strung as a kitten, home. I was expecting to see something grand, of course, believing a hay barn could be fashioned into a palace. Trapped on the Murphy couch, my imagination had been the only part of me able to ramble as it pleased. Mr Murphy stopped when the house came into view, and pinched my toes. ‘What do you think of that, Harper?’

  I stared and stared. The house was small, but it was glittering. It was flashing, like water going over rocks in the sun. ‘It’s twinkling,’ I whispered. ‘It’s twinkling and shining.’

  I wobbled on his shoulders as he laughed. ‘I said we were building you a palace, didn’t I? What good’s a palace if it doesn’t gleam like gold?’

  ‘Hurry,’ I urged, kicking him on. ‘Hurry.’

  So he gripped my ankles and together we charged up the hill.

  THE HOUSE GLITTERED BECAUSE the wood it was made from had been polished for half a century by straw, which had left behind it not only a deep honey gloss but also its smell, sweet, and heartwarming. On some of the planks you could see the dents of pitchforks jabbed by boys who would be men now, or by men who would be old. You could see their writing, figures scrawled in chalk as they’d counted off the bales. You could see where they had taken out their pocket knives and shaved the planks when idle
and bored. But mostly you could see the shine of all that straw, blinding at sunset, glorious at dawn. The new house was a palace.

  It had four rooms, three of them larger than any room I’d ever lived in, while the fourth room was a sleepout for Devon and tiny, tucked away and made from the remnants of Mam and Da’s bedroom. Stout cyclone-wire beds had been built for each of us and even for Caffy, as well as a kitchen table and chairs. In every room was a window with neat-fitting shutters and the gaps between the planks had been stopped with gobs of clay. The roof was made of corrugated iron, with no patching of kerosene tin. The chimney had been pulled apart and rebuilt in the new kitchen, and given a glassy stone hearth. The clothes line had been propped near to the back door and the outhouse was being moved closer. There was a veranda that was broader and longer than our old one, and if I stood on it and levered on my toes I could see where the shanty had been. There was nothing left to say it had stood but a shallow dustbowl in the hill

  Mr Murphy had guessed that the earth around the shanty was riddled with Tin’s early tunnels and was precarious for it: but, not knowing the range of Tin’s work, he’d looked at the ground and realised none of it could be counted on, there was not a handspan’s worth that might not crumble unexpectedly into itself. So he’d marked up the rockiest patch of earth he could find, reasoning Tin would have avoided such obstacles, and the house had been built there, a hundred paces from where the shanty had been. I went to the dustbowl and inspected it but the ground had been churned, topped up with mullock and walked over too often, there was not a stone or a scratch I could recognise. I thought about the times Tin and I had lain beneath the shanty listening to conversations we weren’t supposed to hear, the cool breeze licking the soles of our feet and a dog beside us, its chin between its toes. I had liked it that I was the only one small enough to squeeze down there with him; I had liked it that he trusted me enough to climb from the tunnels and stretch alongside me. The stumps the new house stood on were so low that a rat would have to suck in its breath to get by. The new house had rocks beneath it, meaning Tin shouldn’t have been in its vicinity in the past and was discouraged for the future. From where I stood I looked for sign of him or his doings but our land seemed the same as anybody else’s.

  I flew to Da as soon as I saw him, but he was holding a flask and two borrowed glasses and he kneed me aside. ‘Careful,’ he said, ‘you’ll break things. Feeling better now?’

  I put my hands where his knee had knocked my stomach, smiling dazedly up at him. I wanted to throw my arms around his knees, to dance with the excitement of seeing him again, but I reckoned he would think that was childish, flapping about in front of everyone. The house wasn’t perfectly finished and the neighbours were fussing here and there, tapping things with hammers. Da gave me the glasses to carry and I skipped beside him proudly. ‘Have you seen Tin, Da?’

  ‘Not a wink, chicken, but I’ve been too busy to be doing any looking.’

  We stopped at the new outhouse, where Mr Godwin and Mr Robertson were nailing boards around the pit and Godwin’s slinky greyhounds were flattened in the sun. ‘Bill,’ said Da, ‘Harry, take something for your thirst. We’re out of glasses, Izzy – will the bottle do for you?’

  From behind the outhouse stepped a young man I’d never seen before, who thanked Da politely before taking the bottle. He wore a creased clean pair of dungarees and the tip of his nose was burned and peeling. He had the bluest eyes, the creamiest skin, the most magnificent shock of scarlet hair that I had ever seen. When he put the bottle to his mouth, a dribble of beer escaped his sun-kissed lips.

  ‘I’m Harper Flute,’ I said. ‘I’ve been sick at the Murphys’.’

  ‘Not on Rosie’s best rug, I hope,’ said Mr Godwin, and cawed. They’d been drinking, I could tell. ‘Introduce yourself to the lady, Izzy.’

  ‘Hello.’ The young man smiled at me, showing teeth polished as stars. ‘I’m Izzy Godwin. I’m sorry about you being sick.’

  ‘Izzy’s come out from the city, Harper. He’s come to toughen up. One day he might even be as tough as you! No good wafting through life like a china doll, is there? You’re not a china doll, are you, Harper?’

  ‘No I’m not, Mr Godwin.’

  ‘You don’t even own a china doll. Probably never seen one.’

  ‘She’s got a stake in three Red Poll heifers,’ said Da. ‘That’s worth fifty dolls.’

  The men laughed and I laughed uncertainly with them. Izzy was gripping the bottle by the throat and smiling, his elegant eyes examining the ground. ‘Show Izzy your heifers, Harper,’ said Mr Godwin. ‘He’s never met one close before.’

  ‘Aye, go on, Izzy.’

  I took his hand gladly, leading him past the gate and into the paddock, smiling beatifically up at him all the time. The cows saw us coming and lifted their heads, chewing on thoughtfully. ‘How long are you staying?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know. My father said things wouldn’t be too bad in the country for a while. He asked Uncle Bill if I could stay. Keep me out of mischief and all.’

  His hand felt frail and silky in mine, so invitingly crushable that I couldn’t help giving it a squeeze. ‘What mischief do you mean?’

  ‘Oh, you know – the lads, and all.’

  The heifers had lumbered forward to meet us, blowing foam from their nostrils and trailing ropes of drool. I grabbed one by the underjaw and said, ‘You can pet her, she won’t bite.’

  The cow switched her tail and Izzy dodged backwards, but caught hold of his courage and ran his fingers along the animal’s spine. He said, ‘She’s not so soft as I thought she’d be.’

  ‘She’s got hard bones inside her.’

  ‘Long eyelashes. She smells nice, too. Clean. Nice, she is.’

  He stayed there skimming his fingers over the velvety hide of the cow and I stood beside him grinning like a mooncalf, witless and utterly smitten. Most people I knew, I had known from the minute I was born: the sight of him, so creamy and new, made my heart fair pound. I asked, ‘Um, how old are you?’

  ‘Seventeen. How old are you?’

  ‘Ten,’ I said, because I would be, eventually.

  ‘Ten. That’s grown up.’

  ‘It is,’ I agreed.

  My plan was to stop with him for the rest of the day and I would have, had not Audrey appeared when I was showing him the chickens and told me that Mam needed me in the kitchen. Mam knew nothing about it, though, and when I came out Audrey and Izzy were gone and only chickens were in the cage.

  So began a rivalry between me and no one, for to Audrey I was naught but an irritation. I cursed the fact that I’d been ill, and given her a headstart of days alone with him while I lay captured on that flowery couch. Izzy was living on the Godwin property which was just along the road from our own and he wandered over most evenings with his pockets full of interesting things for Caffy and me, smooth stones or peg dolls or mouse skeletons. I’d belt down the hill to meet him and hold to my heart his milky spider of a hand. Everyone said he was making eyes at Audrey but I reckoned it was she making eyes at him: whenever they went out strolling together, it was always her suggesting that they do. Da insisted that Devon or I should stroll with them because that seemed right and proper; Audrey stormed about this law, although not in front of Mam or Da. Once we were beyond sight of the house, however, she’d do anything to yank the thorn from her side. Devon was an easy bribe, being always on the back of Champion and itching to gallop away to where the local boys were waiting for him, but I was trickier to budge. I could clamber onto Izzy’s shoulders while we wandered the paths and scratch my fingers through his blood-red hair, and nobody but Audrey minded; I could clown about and play chasey with him while Audrey had to sit prettily, demurely gnashing her teeth. She was nearly sixteen, but she primmed about like a full-blown lady. I had always been a degree frightened of her, although I loved and trusted her and usually looked upon all she said or did with a reverence. When we were out in the paddocks with Izzy, however, tormenting
her became my favourite hobby. I would not disappear for anything less than a sack of lollies and even them I’d gobble as fast as I could before hurrying out of the scrub. Occasionally I was quick enough to see her hand resting on his, or her brow tilted close to his lips. She’d spring sideways when she saw me coming, and Izzy would flush crimson.

  One night I was watching her brush her hair before she went to bed, her corn-coloured locks spilling in curls to her elbows. As well as clever and wise I thought she was beautiful, like a princess in a story, and she saw me staring at her. ‘Harper?’ she said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Izzy lets you stay around because you’re a child.’

  I frowned past the hem of my blanket, confused. ‘So?’

  ‘So,’ she said, lowering the brush, ‘you shouldn’t think that he likes you, when all he’s doing is taking pity on a child.’

  ‘He does like me. He never wants me to go away. It’s always you, who says I have to leave you and him alone.’

  ‘He’s too polite to say what he really thinks, I told you. And you have to stop giving him flowers. He throws them away, you know.’

  ‘… They wilt. He has to throw them away.’

  Audrey sighed, and looked at me loftily. ‘You have to do as I say, Harper. I’m going to marry him, after all.’

  ‘Really?’ I sat up in bed and gawped at her. ‘When?’

  ‘After we get engaged.’

  ‘Oh, Audrey! Have you told Mam and Da?’

  ‘No. And don’t you tell them, either. And don’t say anything to Izzy.’

  ‘Doesn’t he know?’

  She flipped her hair forward and brushed its underside. ‘He’s shy,’ she said, behind this veil. ‘You’ll embarrass him if you say anything. It’s a secret, and I’m being kind telling it to you. So don’t you breathe a word.’

  ‘I won’t. Golly, Audrey.’

  ‘And you must leave us in peace, sometimes, when we go out walking. He won’t ask me to marry him while you’re standing about goggling. If you’re good, you can be my bridesmaid.’