by Joy Dettman
They heard a curse, and Mike walked to the paling fence. He could see over it, Billy looked through a knot hole.
‘Got a puncture, Mr Thompson?’ Mike asked. Tom’s bike was upended, the back tyre off and the tube out.
‘I must have ridden over a patch of flamin’ bindi-eyes down near the dairy. I’ve fixed two but I’ve run out of patches. Have you got any I could borrow, lad?’
‘My brothers have. I’ll grab a couple and come over and fix it for you. Kurt Reichenberg is waiting in your office. He rode up ten minutes back.’
Tom washed his hands at the sink, drank from the tap, looked at the lump of corned beef he’d meant to put in a pot, heard Rosie muttering in the passage, retrieved her, dumped her in the kitchen, and walked up to his office where he sighted the dim shape of Kurt peering out through the lifted blind. It was one thing, seeing that lad in the harsh light of day, another entirely seeing him half in shadow.
‘What can I do for you, Kurt?’
‘Has there been word about Rachael?’
‘Rachael?’ Tom glanced at his water jug, noticed his glass tumblers were missing. ‘Rachael died at the scene, lad. She was probably dead when placed where you found her.’ To Tom it had been obvious at a glance that she was dead; he’d thought he and Rob had made it clear – or maybe he hadn’t thought about it. ‘I thought you knew.’
Kurt stepped away, turned back to the window.
A brown paper bag lay on his counter. Tom opened it and peered inside, still looking for his glass tumblers but finding that bloodstained shirt. He couldn’t remember asking for it, but with Morgan on his way up here, he was pleased he had it. The bag top rolled down, he tossed it into a corner on the far side of the counter then stood staring at his visitor, who had lifted the blind and placed one eye close to the frosted glass.
Not a word could Kurt find to say. He wanted to leave, ride, ride hard and fast away from this thing, but he couldn’t go out there and face the stares of those women in their Sunday hats. Not yet. So he stood, his vision blurred as he stared at their figures made fatter by the ripple at the intersection of the T. If he moved his head, that ripple could make small breasts into mountains. He had been playing with this new art form before the constable came, and that is what he concentrated on now. He gave Mrs Larkin an instant pregnancy, gave Mrs O’Brien a twisted face, but his fists were clenched, and his jaw was clenched as he tried to stare away his tears.
This morning, in his heart, he had known Rachael was dead. He had chosen not to acknowledge it. Now the words had been said and he could no longer deny them. He had to get out of this place, ride home, tell Christian.
‘The Russell Street boys will be up here around one. They like their paper in the city, like their facts all set out clear on paper,’ Tom said.
Kurt sucked in a long slow breath, his concentration on Mr Larkin, who had joined his wife beneath the tree; the ripple in the T was lined up on his backside, making it wider than Miss Lizzie’s.
‘If you’ve got a few minutes, you might be able to help me get some details written down.’ His visitor wasn’t moving, so Tom lifted the end of his counter and walked through to his desk, saw what had become of his two tumblers. There was broken glass scattered all over the floor, and on the seat of one of his chairs. He tilted it, heard the tinkle as the glass fell. ‘Come around this side and take the load off your feet, lad.’
Kurt allowed the blind to drop down. His legs were weak, his stomach shuddering. He had to go home but he didn’t want to go home.
‘There’s only one way we can help young Rachael, and that’s by giving those city chaps all the help we can. They’ll get the murdering swine,’ Tom said, his boot moving several of the larger shards back against the wall. ‘Come on around this side, Kurt, and watch where you’re stepping.’
Kurt barely heard the words. Christian had been with Rachael last night and he’d come into the bedroom near dawn, blind stumbling drunk. Only minutes later Kurt found her. Had his brother argued with her, pushed her, not meant to hurt her? Perhaps he had attempted to carry her to Mutti, was too drunk to carry her. ‘Shit,’ he breathed. ‘Shit.’ He turned to the constable, then to the door. No place to run.
‘Come through, lad.’
His legs needing to sit, he followed the constable to the other side of the brown counter. It was like a cage once the end dropped down. Now he was locked into this thing. Now he had to tell all he knew, tell this man how Rachael had come to his bedroom window last night, tapped on the glass.
‘I’m leaving town. I have to talk to Chris before I go,’ she’d whispered through the open window.
‘He’s not here, and you shouldn’t be here, Rachael.’
‘I’ve got to see him, Kurt. Is he over at Dolan’s party?’
He didn’t lie to her, just told her to wait. He dressed, buttoning his shirt as he crept out through the back door. ‘Wait by the washhouse and I’ll fetch him for you,’ he said.
She’d been determined last night; she followed him to the fence, so he stretched the fence wires apart, held them while she climbed through. So clear, that picture. She caught her sleeve on the wire, dropped her handbag while ripping the fabric free, not caring about her beautiful frock. He picked up the handbag. He should have picked her up, carried her away from that place. Instead he found his brother, a drunk with a glass of grog in his hand.
‘The sooner we start on this, the sooner we’ll get it done, lad. Have a seat.’
‘She was –’ Kurt felt the tremble of his lips, and two fingers tried to control them, his chest rising, falling too fast. The shuddering had crept from his legs to his stomach, his lungs. Air would not fill them.
‘I can’t . . . I can’t accept this.’
‘Molliston will be less without that girl’s smile.’
‘She was –’ He couldn’t speak of her. It would break his heart. He sat, lifted his chin, staring hard at the blurred ceiling where it did not quite join the wall.
Tears were for girls. His father had not allowed boys’ tears. No softness in that man, but Kurt heard him laugh at Rachael the day she came to the barn and spoke her German words to him, bidding him come for afternoon tea. And such a laugh he had . . . such a laugh.
‘I get to feeling sometimes that there is no rhyme or reason to this life, Kurt. Why should a girl like that be taken? There is no fairness, never was, nor ever will be, or that’s what a half-century of living has taught me.’
Cold washing over Kurt now, sweating clammy cold. Those two fingers pressed harder to his lip, bruising it against his teeth. Physical pain he could bear, but not this. Perfection, that one, a tiny silver girl, all bright light and laughter – and that light extinguished by his brother? It was not possible. Christian would not leave her bleeding on the road. There had been no blood on his shirt this morning. He hadn’t carried her.
Tom watched his struggle. A woman’s tears he was used to – he gave them a pat on the back, a kiss on the cheek – but watching a man’s emotion always brought tears to Tom’s own eyes. He looked down, opened a drawer and found a pad and a bottle of blue ink. He opened the bottle, set it on his right, then hunted around in the junk for his ink-stained pen. The nib was a bit splayed. He didn’t do a lot of writing, and kept forgetting to buy a replacement; it would do.
‘Righto, lad, let’s make a start here. We’ll go back to last night. I want to know what you saw, what you did, who you saw, and I’m no hand with pen and ink, so don’t talk too fast.’ He heard the intake of air, watched the fingers leave the lip, then return, watched the other hand tapping the edge of his desk. He gave him time.
‘She was warm when I found her, Mr Thompson. I know she was alive when I found her,’ Kurt said, his chin lifting, pleading with gravity now to hold back the tears. ‘I held her shoulders and her head fell against my chest. She was alive when I held her against me.’
‘The temperature yesterday got to one hundred and fifteen and it didn’t cool off much after sundown. Th
e ground she was lying on was hot. That’s why she was warm. There are ways of telling, lad. Doc Hunter was pretty certain she’d been dead for a time before he got there. I thought you knew this morning, and I’m sorry that I didn’t make things clearer. I know that feeling of hope. All morning you’ve been hoping she was going to be all right, hanging on to that hope. I’m sorry I let you go home, go to work, not knowing the facts.’
‘The dead do not bleed.’ Kurt caught a tear with his finger, drew air deep, tried to hold it. ‘If she was dead when the doctor came, then I left her there to die alone.’
‘You’re telling yourself that. Me and Doc Hunter are telling you something different and we’re more experienced at this sort of thing than you are, so stop kicking your own arse. There’s always been more than enough in this town ready to do that for you, I’ve found. You did all you could for your friend. You got us out there to take care of her, and we did the best we could too. Now, if you can tell me what it was that you did when you found her, then I’ll get it all down on paper for Sergeant Morgan.’
‘I was going to carry her up to the hospital until –’
‘I want to go back a bit further than that, like when you woke up this morning. What time did you wake up, and what woke you so flamin’ early on a Sunday morning? Something must have woke you. The alarm clock?’ A shake of the head. ‘Did you maybe hear something? Think, lad. It’s important.’
I woke when my brother came stumbling into the room and fell on me, Kurt thought. Perhaps fifteen minutes later, I found her. I can’t say this or he will rise from that chair and go after Christian. Kurt swallowed, and the lump in his throat moved like a rock to his heart.
‘Take your time.’ Again the deep breath. Again Kurt swallowed. ‘So you didn’t have the alarm set?’
‘Willie Johnson has the cows in by quarter to five. I’m always there at that time.’
‘That’s what I need.’ The pen scratched. ‘So you woke, you got dressed, and left the house by four-thirty.’
Kurt nodded.
‘I can’t record a nod, lad, and believe me, I’m not getting writer’s cramp here for my own benefit.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then what?’
‘I saw her, or saw the white of her frock.’ Kurt swallowed, allowed his tongue to travel his lips. ‘I thought it was someone from Dolan’s hotel.’
Many strangers had been at that place last night, the cider pit door open, piano playing, lantern hanging outside the door, another from a branch of the peppercorn tree. Men stood around, staring at pretty Rachael, at her pretty frock with its beads and lace. Men stared at Kurt, some making comments about the handbag he was carrying. Embarrassed, he’d forced it into Rachael’s hand. Beautiful Rachael, standing at his side, zigzagging lace at her knees, pretty legs in high-heeled shoes. God! If she had been his to love, he would have protected her from such a place.
Not Christian. He’d been sitting with a group in the dirt, mocking Kurt and the handbag he carried. So Kurt said it, and said it loud: ‘Mein Bruder, der Betrunken,’ choosing to wound his brother, if not by calling him a drunkard, then with the language, needing to abuse him in front of his smirking, so-called friends. Christian stumbled to his feet, throwing his grog first and following it with a drunkard’s punch. Someone yelled, ‘Fight! Fight!’
Kurt looked at the constable and shook his head. How could he say anything of last night? How could he say that the last time he had seen Rachael alive, she’d been grasping Christian’s arm, and his bastard of a brother had said to her, ‘Go home and cry on Gimpy’s shoulder. It’s too late to cry on mine.’
Kurt glanced at Tom, wondering how much he knew; he’d already spoken to Mrs Dolan. Was he waiting to catch Kurt in a lie? Those round brown eyes were watching him closely, sympathetic eyes, but Kurt couldn’t hold them. He looked down at the desk where he saw the pattern his hand had made in the dust. He wiped it, placed his hands on his knees.
‘So you pretty much left her as you found her, Kurt.’
‘She was . . . as you saw her. Yes.’
‘Her clothes hadn’t been disturbed?’
‘No. She appeared to be lying on her back, sleeping. I thought someone from the hotel must have given her drink. I thought she would be embarrassed to be woken.’ He rubbed at his brow, striving to remove the image of the mulberry lips and the silver hair, purple striped by mulberry juice. He looked at the floor, saw the shards of glass there.
The constable had seen that glass but chose to pretend it was not there. This is what people did when they couldn’t face what was real – they chose not to see, chose not to feel. Was this how he could live with his crazy woman? He sits there making his notes with a worn-out pen, ignoring the world he inhabits only a door away, Kurt thought. I sit here, broken glass at my feet, like him, pretending it is not there, pretending I did not see his crazy woman throw it. We all create cushions of pretence to shield the mind. God grant me such a cushion now.
He had to tell what he knew, but where to begin? How did you tell in few enough words for that old pen to record? The constable was writing his notes for city policemen and many more would be written today. Rachael’s father was rich. Dave Kennedy was a war hero. Perhaps the Melbourne police were also war heroes. They would remove Kurt’s shirt from that bag, see the blood, smell his sweat on it, and recognise the stink of a German. Blame would be placed fast. He had to give the constable all of the details now. One thing could not be written on this paper and another written later. Better. Safer. And if in remaining safe he put Christian in danger? Then that drunken bastard deserved it.
But he hadn’t harmed Rachael. He had been angry last night, but even in anger, he wouldn’t hurt her. And if he had accidentally hurt her, drunk or not, he wouldn’t have left her where she’d fallen, walked away from her.
The question had been answered without being asked. He knew his brother had not harmed Rachael, and for an instant he felt he’d vomit with relief. He stood, sucked in a deep breath, glanced at the constable, who was watching his every move, so he sat again, looked at his boots.
When I ride away from here, he thought, I’ll have to tell them at home that she’s dead. Mutti will weep for her. Papa’s face will harden and he’ll turn his eyes away. Christian will stare at me while his face grows pale and his eyes grow hot enough to burn me, then he’ll kick the horse or the barn, punch a wall until his fists bleed, but he won’t cry for her. It had taken Christian a long time to learn that tears were for girls. He’d learned it, though, learned that lesson better than Kurt.
Only a year ago there had been such lightness, such happiness at home – because of Rachael. She’d come often on Sunday afternoons. She’d loved Elsa’s flaky pastry and had tried to make it – and made very bad pastry. So much laughter in that kitchen when they’d eaten it, Joseph even making a joke: ‘Go fetch my chisel and the small hammer,’ he’d said. Kurt translated those words for Rachael, she laughed, and everyone laughed. ‘This one brings back the light,’ Joseph said, then lifted a hand, not wishing those words translated. ‘This little Silver brings light again into my house.’
Old men become fools. Joseph saw who he wanted to see in Rachael, believed that because he wanted her light and laughter to fill those rooms, he would have it. Young men are greater fools. Christian thought to take what he wanted and make it his own. Kurt had known better. Always, from childhood, he’d known instinctively she was of a different world. That first day at the river, he’d seen her as a magical being; and the day in the mulberry tree, she’d been real enough, but he’d known she was not for the likes of him. How many times had he warned Christian: ‘She’s a Catholic,’ he’d said. ‘She’s rich. She’s a Squire.’
‘Shit,’ he breathed. ‘Shit.’ Then he lifted his chin, looked the constable in the eye and didn’t look away. ‘Rachael came to our house last night and I took her to Mrs Dolan’s party.’
‘What?’
Kurt repeated his words.
‘You’
re telling me that you took Dave Kennedy’s wife to that pub?’ A nod the only reply. ‘What the hell were you thinking of? What the hell was she thinking of, going there with you? What the hell was going on with you two?’
‘For years she has been our friend, and these last years, more than a friend to my brother.’ He shrugged, allowed his eyes to wander. ‘She used to swim across the river and cut through Kennedy’s property to our place – from when she was thirteen. Long before she was Kennedy’s wife, she and Christian hoped to marry. For a time, after church on Sundays, she’d tell her parents she was going to a friend’s house and she’d spend the day with us. People would do anything for her, just to have her for their friend. She was a bright star in this town, Mr Thompson. If you were within her circle, then all around you there was . . . brightness.’ He closed his eyes, sucked air between clenched teeth. Twice he tried to speak before the words came. ‘She didn’t want that marriage to Kennedy. Her father forced her to marry him.’
‘How do you know this?’
‘My mother knows.’ Again Kurt shrugged. ‘Two weeks ago Rachael came to us – to my mother. She was weeping. She told my mother everything.’
‘So she continued seeing your brother – even after she’d married Kennedy?’
‘No. Her father and Kennedy kept an invisible chain around her neck and they tugged hard on it if I, or my brother, was around. We had no chance to speak to her, until two weeks ago when she came to us in the night.’ He shook his head, wanting to wash the image away. Couldn’t make it go away. ‘She was broken, Mr Thompson, like one of those fragile silver moths that come in from the dark, their wings bruised, their glow all gone. She was crying so hard, heartbroken crying, and she couldn’t stop. My mother held her for an hour, rocking her as if she were a baby.’
‘Had Kennedy been abusing her?’
Kurt shook his head, shrugged. ‘Perhaps. She spoke to Mutti – to my mother.’ He looked at Tom, again shook his head. ‘My father was in bed, Christian left the house when she came. This crushed Rachael more. “Tell him it’s not my fault, Mutti. Tell him I love only him, Mutti.” This is what she called our mother.’
