A Room Made of Leaves

by Kate Grenville

  – Only, as you will understand, we heard gunfire close by and naturally I wish to know all.

  Know all. I spoke lightly, as if it were no more important to know all about the gunshots than it would be to know all about the price of a pound of pork at the commissary.

  – Indeed, he said. And you shall know all.

  He looked up sideways, as if addressing the corner of the ceiling.

  – Pemulwuy was in a great rage, he said. He threatened to spear the first man that dared to approach him. And actually did throw a spear at one of the soldiers.

  Mr Macarthur’s tone was flattening out a great rage and threw a spear and making these vivid images colourless, of no more interest than a brief shower of rain or a fine day.

  Threw a spear at one of the soldiers. If Pemulwuy had wished to injure or kill the soldier, he would have done so, but Mr Macarthur said nothing of that. I felt I was trying to see the event through a fog. He threw a spear at a soldier, that was a plain enough picture, and so was his great rage, but what was the motive behind the arm that threw, and the rage that propelled it?

  – And if I may enquire, sir, I said, why was Pemulwuy in a great rage? Was something done, or said? Some deceit uncovered or promise broken?

  I was trying to match his colourless tone, to lull him into saying more.

  – Oh for heaven’s sake, woman, he cried. How should I be expected to enter the mind of a savage? Do not press me like a damned lawyer!

  Reached for the decanter, poured a precise amount into his glass, took a sip.

  – Really, my dear, he said, and laughed in a forced way. How do you expect a man to get a word in edgeways to answer you?

  – But Mr Macarthur, I said. This is beyond strange, surely you see that.

  – My dear, he said, very silky. You lead a sheltered life here and so you should. But those of us whose daily task it is to deal with the natives are familiar with the fact that they are not creatures of reason.

  I waited, though by now I was pretty sure I was watching theatre. He took his time savouring another sip of wine and put the glass down carefully.

  – So, he said, Pemulwuy having initiated the conflict by his action, it was then necessary to show the natives the superiority of our firearms.

  At last I could picture it. The soldiers, assembled in formation with their guns loaded, waiting for the command to fire. When Pemulwuy raised his spear and threw it, the command came. From the man in command.

  My husband was a soldier. His profession, at least in theory, involved the administering of death. But until we had moved to Parramatta, being a soldier had never meant much more than the uniform, the protocols of rank, the ladder of promotion. Until now, hearing him say the superiority of our firearms, I had never felt the flesh-and-blood fact of his profession.

  He may not have had a gun in his own hand. He may not, personally, have pressed his finger against the obedient metal tongue and caused a ball of lead to shred the flesh and shatter the bones of another person. But his would have been the voice that gave the command. Fire! His would have been the choice. To call the word, or to refrain.

  There was a thickness in my throat at the picture of my husband, who entered my body every night, uttering that ugly word.

  – How many dead?

  The word came out strangely.

  – Dead? How many dead? Oh, five or six. And a number wounded.

  – And Pemulwuy, I asked. Dead also?

  He raised his glass and drained it.

  – Pemulwuy was taken alive, he said. With seven pieces of buckshot lodged in his body. He was conveyed to the hospital, where he remains a prisoner.

  He wiped his mouth, threw the napkin down beside his plate, sat back with his arms folded.

  – I am confident, my dear, that with the sable generalissimo in our hands, we will have no more trouble from the savages.

  A GREAT COLDNESS

  I walked down the next morning to where it—whatever it was—had happened. Guards were stationed at the door of the hospital, but that was the only thing out of the ordinary. The grass, the stones, the dust, showed no imprint of what had happened.

  There was only one certain fact. Shots had been fired. I had heard those myself.

  Not a fact, but probable, was that Pemulwuy was now a prisoner. Seven pieces of buckshot. If true, that was another strangeness in this whole strange tale. It meant that the muskets used against the men Mr Macarthur had told me were dead had been loaded with ball, while the one levelled at Pemulwuy had been loaded with buckshot. One reason for that degree of discrimination came strongly to my mind: there had been a plan, and it had involved the wish not to kill Pemulwuy, but to make a prisoner of him.

  All His Majesty’s officers had learned their history. They knew that to kill a leader on the field of battle was to run the risk of awarding him the dangerous status of martyr. But to make him a prisoner was to destroy him. He could be paraded and humiliated, he could be executed, he could be sent away into exile. Perhaps he could even be persuaded to make his people surrender. Whatever you might choose to do with him, once he was your prisoner, victory was assured.

  I stood with a great coldness around my heart, looking at the emptiness that hid so much. The river dimpled and twinkled in the morning sun, a flock of red parrots darted across the river twittering, a magpie too young to be cautious hopped along the path in front of me. Nothing was changed here. If there had been bodies, someone had removed them and shovelled dirt over the blood. There was nothing to show what had happened. Only the words of that story, snipped out and pasted onto the air.

  There was nowhere for me to go, other than back into the house owned by my husband, where the children who belonged to him would be waking up, and where the men and women whose master he was would be attending to his needs. I could go back there and press Mr Macarthur for more details, but what would be the point? He had arrived at his story, and would have no reason to change it.

  I stood for so long that I drew the attention of the soldiers on duty outside the barracks. I saw them talking together and looking towards me, and before they could come and ask What is the matter, Mrs Macarthur, I turned and set my face towards the house and that man who was, till death us do part, my husband.

  Days would pass, weeks, months. The rest of my life. But always, behind every day, would be the ghost of this: the snuffing-out of lives, and a story that did not convince.

  FECUNDITY

  The place of eels turned out to be a place of great fecundity, and not for the sheep alone. Elizabeth was not yet two when James was born. Oh, he was a bonny flourishing babe, placid and sweet-tempered, and I loved to see his strong grasp on life, so unlike Edward’s weak beginning and Elizabeth’s continuing fragility. He was the first babe I could love without fear of losing, and my days with him were unalloyed pleasure. It was with a sinking of the heart that I knew, around the time of his first birthday, that I was again with child.

  Then James died. Such a bonny babe, but dead in two days from a sudden fever, lying white and limp, his eyes dulling as I watched, and no remedy of any use. Mrs Brown came to me, into the stuffy dim room where his slip of a body lay among the compresses and potions that had been forced on him. She held me, and her stillness made a space in her arms for me to feel the terrible blank. She said nothing, but stayed beside me while I met the fact that had to be met.

  We buried him up on the Fairview, a small hole with a small coffin and a small stone with his name chiselled into it. It made the place more precious, a part of this land that was myself, a part of myself gone into its soil.

  Grief at his death had to be bundled away, because the new one, John, had to be made welcome. I loved John, but grief clouded the love I felt for him. He lived to be a man, although he died before his time. Perhaps he always knew in his marrow that his mother was not quite ready for him in the cloud of grief around the death of his brother.

  In his turn, John was not long past his first birthday when I bore a s
econd daughter, so John and Mary were more like twins than brother and sister. Mary was two when a third son was born—at Mr Macarthur’s insistence, he was another James—two years later, William, and later again, the afterthought Emmeline.

  I SHOULD NOT HAVE DONE

  Like every other gentleman in the colony, Mr Macarthur believed that his children must have a proper English schooling. I had no argument against the idea, for it was true that there was no school worth the name in the colony. I had already shed a few private tears at what must happen to each of the children as they grew. From the age they were old enough to say England, Mr Macarthur had taught them that it was the source of all good things, and they spoke of it with rapture.

  Soon after Edward’s seventh birthday, a Mr Skinner was found, who would take him to England and settle him in a school. Mr Macarthur announced this to me, read off the date of sailing from Mr Skinner’s note as if it were a matter of no great consequence. But as he spoke I watched his fingers folding a corner of the paper, folding and smoothing, folding and smoothing.

  I had always known this time would come, but always hoped it would be later. Always later. Never the brutal fact of now.

  – He is too young, I said. Could we not wait?

  He flapped the letter against the side of his leg as if slapping himself.

  – Nonsense, the mouth above that agitated hand said. There is nothing to be gained by waiting. Nothing to be gained. Whatsoever.

  And now to my surprise he came to my side and put his arm around my shoulders.

  – My dear, he said, and for once the endearment was gentle. My dear, I understand this is a trial for you. For any mother.

  – And not for a father?

  He took his arm away, folded the paper, thrust it into his pocket.

  – He will have a grand time, he said.

  There was a silence as we both listened to the hollowness of this.

  – It has to be done, he said, and for a moment we could share that sadness.

  Mr Macarthur had instructed me not to say goodbye to Edward. Otherwise, he said, the parting would be too difficult.

  – But he must be prepared, I said. He must be told.

  – Nonsense, Mr Macarthur said. Let him come on board with cheerfulness. If he thinks it means separation, he will make difficulties.

  – But he will make difficulties once the ship sails and he realises what has happened!

  – Oh, he will soon get over it, he said, children forget so quickly.

  Mr Macarthur and Mr Skinner and I took Edward down to the cabin, and Mr Skinner showed him all the ingenious devices there for stowing and securing everything. While Edward was intent on discovering how the latch of the cupboard worked, Mr Macarthur signalled me to go. I hesitated. He signalled again.

  I stooped to kiss the boy. One last embrace. But just then the latch was more interesting than his mother—the latch was new, the mother as familiar and dependable as air. Mr Macarthur urged me out, herded me to the doorway, but as I turned to go I snatched the handkerchief out of my bodice and pushed it in among Edward’s bundle.

  I did not have to be on board to know that at last he tired of all the novelties of the ship, looked around for Mama, could not see her, and on asking was told she was not there. That he would not see her again for years. Such a span of time would not have much meaning for him, but he would understand the fundamental fact: his Mama had abandoned him. He would look up at Mr Skinner so far above him and know that this was all he could hope for in a seemingly endless future.

  It was betrayal that would fuel the wailing. Betrayal, that he had been allowed to run so eagerly, so thoughtlessly, onto that ship.

  I should not have been persuaded. I should have sat the boy down in advance of boarding, explained, weathered his protests, been beside him as he came to accept it. Even as late as the last minute, I could have said, Edward, forget the latch, I am leaving you now.

  I was a coward, I was flustered, I was unconvinced of myself. Only knew, as I stumbled off the ship, that I had allowed a terrible wrong to be done.

  I was weak, and I wish to God I had not been.

  HOME

  Mr Macarthur had done his best to undermine Old Hornpipe and seemed for the moment to be the victor in that feud. But under his bluster about insults and outrage, I could see that he felt the mood in the colony was changing. He had his finger to the wind, and from what he told me, certain individuals appeared to be avoiding him. In some cases, it seemed, they could be observed sliding quietly behind the protective shape of the governor. Even a wife living in the isolation of a farm at Parramatta could sense it: every man was looking to protect his own suddenly naked neck.

  He came to me one night as I sat in the parlour.

  – My dearest and best beloved wife, he began.

  I felt every nerve tighten.

  – You have been a queen among wives, he said. But your patience is rewarded at last. I have formed the determination to sell all that we have here, so that we may return to the land of our forebears.

  I was like a person on the edge of the cliffs at Bude, a person who had been walking along trustingly, whose foot had slipped on the grass. There would be an instant before gravity seized her, when she would still think she could step back. There would be no terror, just a picture of a net catching her, or an angel whisking her up. She would still be smiling as she fell.

  But no net or angel would appear. There would be a desperate clutching. At a blade of grass, at the air.

  – What a delight, I said. My voice shook, and he smiled in sympathy at what he took to be my gladness.

  – Oh, what a delight to see home again, what a happy piece of news, I said, as if throwing more words at the idea would stop it happening.

  Put a look on my face that I thought was right for someone hankering for home, while I waited for inspiration. This had always been inevitable, but I had let myself think it would not be till tomorrow, till next month, till next year. Now I was appalled at the delusion I had let myself live in. All those evenings in my petit coin, all those afternoons up on the Fairview, all the children born and died, and I had gone on as if it would be forever.

  – I will offer it to His Excellency, Mr Macarthur said.

  There was always a mocking edge to those words.

  – No one but the Crown has the resources to buy such a valuable estate. I will ask two thousand pounds. The house alone is worth that. He will not refuse the price.

  It was the words refuse the price that invited some genius to visit me for long enough to show me what I might do.

  – Two thousand pounds! I said. That is a generous act indeed, Mr Macarthur. A splendid gift. His Excellency will be touched.

  – A gift! he exclaimed. A gift to His Excellency!

  I was all enthusiastic innocence.

  – It is of a piece with all your generosity in the service of this place, I said. Working far beyond the call of duty, wearing out your horse going back and forth to Sydney, being instrumental in making the place flourish! And now to make such a noble gift of the best farm in New South Wales, cleared and under crops, with a fine house, not to mention the livestock, the horses and of course the sheep. After all, a dozen of your sheep are pure Spanish, hardly to be found outside Spain!

  I made myself stop, the words had started to take on a life of their own and my voice was a pitch too high.

  – Of course, two thousand is for the land and house, he said. Naturally there will be another sum for the crops and livestock.

  I will suggest to Old Hornpipe that I would not consider less than three thousand.

  I nodded, but allowed myself a little frown.

  – We have been able to make ourselves comfortable here, I said. I suppose we will not have to live in a very much smaller way at home. Your dear brother would be able to look out a modest house for us. And there may be some of your comrades in arms who could advise how best to manage on your stipend.

  There was a promising silence
from Mr Macarthur.

  – The horses, he said. I was forgetting the horses. The finest bloodstock in the country. Perhaps four thousand would be best.

  He did not sound sure, and in truth this was a colossal sum.

  – If he desired you to sell for any less, after your years of service, it would be an insult, I said.

  He got up as if stung, poked at the fire, and sat down very foursquare on the chair. My trump card, that word insult, had done the trick. It occurred to me that perhaps the devious Mr Macarthur and myself were, after all, not so very different from each other.

  In that blaze of inspired invention I had done what I was able to. But I could not be sure of the outcome. Yes, it was possible that the Crown would jib at paying four thousand pounds for something it had given away in the first place, and we would stay. On the other hand, he might be so delighted at the chance to get Mr Macarthur out of his life that he would pay whatever was necessary, and we would go.

  The governor wrote immediately to Whitehall, he told Mr Macarthur, recommending the purchase in the warmest terms. But Whitehall was not convinced. In fact it seemed that officials there had expressed something stronger than surprise that an officer paid by the Crown to do government service had found opportunity to amass such an estate so quickly. Suddenly it seemed that Whitehall was rather interested in Captain John Macarthur and his doings, especially in relation to the rivers of rum whose importation he had overseen.

  There was no more talk of selling up. But I did not allow myself to celebrate. This could be no more than a reprieve. I knew my husband. Once he had decided, he would get his way. Every evening I went down to my petit coin as I always had, but now it was in the melancholy of preparing for farewell.

  I will confess to other fancies. Arsenic. Deadly nightshade. Might I have taken the thought and turned it into the deed? In a book, perhaps. But my life was at once simpler and more complicated than any made-up story, and I knew I was no murderer.