Diamonds in the Mud and Other Stories (21 page)

Martha invited him to put fifty dollars into a bankrupt racing syndicate. Although Mother would not approve, on pay day Arthur handed over his fifty; he had not yet learned to say no to a woman. They tripled that fifty on the first Saturday, then placed their winnings on Arthur's tips for the Caulfield Cup. They got the winner and third place getter. Syndicate of the mixed and matched, it had found its good luck charm in Artie. The group refused to make a move without him.

‘Pick you up at nine, Artie. We're all going to the Cup.'

Not since primary school had someone come by his house to pick him up. Now a red minibus called for him, beeped its horn, seven voices urged him on board while his mother –

‘We'll eat out, Mother.'

He was a bud, opening up to spring.

They backed four winners, and the last one came in at twenty-five to one with five hundred dollars on his nose. Happy is . . . happy is . . . happy is having to drive the red minibus home because everyone else is too drunk to drive it. Happy is being able to say: ‘I got my licence in Dad's Kingswood on my eighteenth birthday. Happy is adding his own chortle to the raucous laughter when blotto Mick says, ‘Not the bloody Kingswood.' Happy is a weekend of celebrating, it's drinking that first stubby of beer, it's walking into Jayson's Menswear, buying a pair of stretch, stone-washed jeans and a suede jacket. Happy is . . . it's just happy.

The factory closed down for Christmas, and the minibus headed off for a wild week in New South Wales. A minor hitch with motel bookings, made by Martha, found Arthur sharing a room with her. She was a woman. He couldn't say no – didn't want to say no, really, and she had enough experience for two.

He returned to number eighty-two slimmer, stronger, wearing a loud t-shirt proclaiming
Been There, Done That
, and a pair of sunglasses – to hide his guilty eyes from Mother. She was in the garden, hanging out the clothes.

‘Arthur. Arthur. You're giving up that job . . . do you hear me, Arthur? It's as clear as the nose on your face that they've done something to you . . . you're not the same boy you used to be.'

‘I suggest you place your bets on that one, Mother,' he said.

‘You're heading straight for hell, Arthur.'

‘And loving it,' he agreed, but silently.

‘You take that filthy shirt off right now, and wipe that self-satisfied grin off your face before I wipe it off for . . . '

Out of breath, Mother inhaled. Inhaled deeply. A European wasp, seeking a dark moist cavern in which to set up house, was sucked in. Mother closed her dentures on it, determined to crush it, but the wasp sought a rear exit, stinging as it went – which proved to be a fatal encounter for both combatants.

Silence at number eighty-two, and of course some sadness. Arthur had three days off, compassionate leave. Martha suggested he take the time off.

In the hour before dawn on the day of Mother's funeral, he lay on his back listening to Father's solo snore. No more that apologetic sip of stolen air, his snore sucked on free air until it quavered around high C, like the cry of a bird mourning its lost mate. Arthur held his breath, waiting for the pop, for the whistle, but the frequency altered. The snore faltered, died half sung. Sweet silence.

Arthur slept until ten forty-five and awoke to find the undertaker's car at his door and Father dead. He'd overdosed on oxygen.

Number eighty-two was willed to Arthur. He had the telephone connected, painted the walls white and the roof red, painted the kitchen green, and his bedroom in three shades of lilac. On permanent staff now, when Martha's robust health gave a little hiccup, he was made acting supervisor. Two months later, the position became permanent. And a fine supervisor he made, methodical, patient – until a box of Tim-Tams felled him. It toppled off the upper conveyor belt and landed on his head. He was in a neck-brace for two months and on work-care for two more.

And so the circle interrupted may have rejoined, if not for Martha's little hiccup, which, for three months, she'd put down to premature menopause.

From Monday to Friday, and every third weekend, Arthur walks down the hill where he catches the seven twenty-five orange bus to the depot. Here he dons his cap and his smile, and boards a green bus which he drives around suburban streets until four.

‘Morning, Mrs Martin. How's that leg today?'

‘Getting better every day, thank you, dear.'

‘Want a hand with that trolley, Mrs Jones?'

‘Ta, Arthur. You're a gem among bus drivers, you are.'

At four thirty Arthur catches the blue bus to the top of Hill Street and walks briskly home to number eighty-two where a fat cat waits on the letterbox, and Martha Thomson calls from the front door.

‘Artie. Did you remember to get the nappies and the cat food, love?'

Today is Monday. The sun is red, a strong north wind carries smoke on its breath and I am late for school. On Monday and Friday I am always late, for on these days I carry the basket of eggs to the grocer and wait at his door until he comes with the key. He takes the basket and the note from my mother, then I run the two blocks to school.

This morning I arrive in time to join the line of sixth graders marching onto the veranda. I march behind Marlene. She is older than me by ten months, but I am a head taller, taller even than most of the boys.

I am wearing my red cardigan; it draws many glances. And my hair – long, thick, black – draws the early heat to my head. I look with envy at Marlene's straw hat and her freckled bare arms as I slip into the shade of the classroom where the wooden desk will be smooth and cool against my legs.

The stranger is here. I lift the lid of my desk then, hiding behind it, study a small man seated in front of the fireplace. I think his features are pinching him, tight as shoes saved for God on Sunday. I know he is here to observe and assess me, but he is staring at Robby West. Robby is thirteen, older, taller than me. He fears neither man, God, nor school inspector, but lolls in grade four, determined not to learn – and succeeding.

The stranger sniffs, turns, stares at Jenna King, then at the other shiny black faces our headmaster scatters amongst the whites. Mrs Macy sits the Aboriginals in a group, close to the door. This man will approve of Mrs Macy. He doesn't like my Mr Fletcher.

I like him. He is as fat as this stranger is thin, his face round and pink. His throat is uncommonly dry this morning, he swallows often. The green thermos of brandy, always at home beneath his table, will be missing today. It is he who passes me the examination paper. His dull green shirt is clean, but perspiration soaked already. It smells of brandy. He always smells of brandy.

‘Would you like me to light the fire, Burton?' he asks. My cardigan is a red rag waved before an angry bull. ‘Go to the cloakroam now, remove that sweater and get that hair off your face before you pick up your pen.'

‘No thank you.' I make the words with my hands. Three brief things. Only inside my head do words run free.

The stranger sniffs. Twice. It is a habit of his. I watch him. He repeats his twin sniff every minute, on the minute. I smile as I watch the hands of the clock try to race his sniff to the quarter-hour. Too mean to perspire, he sits unmoving, his narrow nostrils closed, conserving bodily fluids. His skin is dry, a patchy red, a flaky grey; he is a malnourished rat ready to pounce on me.

‘Take up your pens.' He sniffs and the hands of the clock jump to the quarter-hour. ‘Start now.' He sniffs.

I look at the paper placed before me. Careful not to blot the page, I write the answers in my best script, but midway through I steal a glance at the stranger. He is staring at me now, but his eyes slide to the side like fat on a hot frypan as they meet with my own. Quickly I drop my chin and return my attention to the history paper.

I do not hear the call of, ‘Time.'

Marlene elbows my elbow. ‘Time, Dummy.'

She is helpful. I like Marlene. She calls her brother Deadeye. He lost his left eye at the age of six. She calls Mr Fletcher Brandy-legs. Nicknames are a part of life in my little school, but that stranger does not understand about our school. He is from the city so he makes a note in his black book.

‘Time,' Mr Fletcher bawls and stamps a foot. I feel the vibration on the wooden floor. We all feel the vibration when the headmaster stamps his foot. ‘Scoot. Go run your heads under a tap and clear your brains. Scat, and allow me to clear mine. And get that confounded cardigan off your back before you re-enter my classroom, Burton.'

He waddles across the playing field to his house, faster than he has moved in many a day.

I spend my lunch hour at my desk reading the dictionary. I see the headmaster and the stranger return to the classroom. They ignore me. I ignore them.

‘She is not accepted by her peer group. To continue educating her within the normal school system would be detrimental to her well-being.' He sniffs. ‘My report will be to that nature, Mr Fletcher.'

‘Peer group? Look at her. She reads that dictionary as some read the bible.'

‘I have no argument as to her ability to handle the work. I speak of her psychological well-being. Is she out in the playing field with the others, Mr Fletcher?'

‘Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the noonday sun.'

‘The girl will be better off with her own kind. And why has she not been fitted with a deaf aid?'

‘I don't believe she needs one. I explained this in my report.'

The inspector claps his hands. I concentrate on my book. He turns away. A sniff, a small tight smile. ‘I'd also like to discuss your handling of the Aboriginal students. You must find the parents of the white –'

Mr Fletcher's fist thumps the table. The inspector's sentence cut short, he forgets to sniff and a droplet of moisture glistens on the tip of his nose, threatens to fall.

‘To place that particular child in an institution at this stage of her development would be criminal. I believe that given time –'

‘And you have heard my opinion, Mr Fletcher. Now, the Aboriginal problem. Whites sit with whites, the blacks sit with other blacks.' He sniffs and the droplet is saved.

‘I have no Aboriginal problem. In my classroom, they sit where I sit them. They like it or they lump it. To return to the Burton child.'

‘I can only agree with the department heads on this matter.'

‘Brain like a steel trap. So bogged down in red tape, you're incapable of seeing the obvious. The girl's lip-reading skills are outstanding, too outstanding. Her use, and swift understanding of manual speech is limited.'

‘Which only proves that you failed in your duty, Mr Fletcher. The break should have been made years earlier. The longer we leave it now, the harder it will be for her.'

Mr Fletcher's tongue is eager to strip the stringy meat from the stranger's bones, but he stops short, licks his lips, smiles, suddenly aware that he is bashing his head against a non-giving wall of red tape, incapable of original thought, which is also incapable of acknowledging his own addiction.

I smile too. We, my keeper of knowledge and I, do not fit well into pigeonholes.

The man leaves. Mr Fletcher looks at the clock. His chubby cheeks dimple. With four minutes remaining to the bell, he goes out in the noonday sun, hurrying across the playing field to retrieve his thermos.

 

By midafternoon our classroom windows are inviting the sun inside and Mr Fletcher is reeling.

‘Get that cardigan off your back, Burton,' he demands. ‘And tie that confounded hair back.'

I shake my head.

‘Shall we give her a choice, class? The cardigan or the blackboard? Which will it be, Burton?'

‘The board. The board.' The class play to him, urging him on.

‘Then indeed you shall clean the board, Burton. Your peers have decided. Peers are important in this world; however, the choice is yours. The cardigan or the duster.'

I pull my sagging socks high and walk to the front of the class, holding my skirt down with one hand while reaching for the top of the large blackboard.

Big as an elephant and silent as a mouse, his finger is on the pulse of his classroom, and of this town. His eyes, blurred, magnified by the thick-lensed glasses he wears, see all, see the slim line of calf between my socks and skirt.

‘You shall be elected permanent blackboard cleaner. You no longer need a chair to reach the top. Someone has been putting fertiliser in your shoes, Burton.'

‘Chook dung,' I write there with chalk. ‘We have got plenty.'

The class laughs. The fat man is pleased with himself. He believes he alone has created me. The last headmaster didn't make me come to school. Now I never want to go home.

Arithmetic papers handed around, he warns, ‘Not a whisper, not a groan. Don't even breathe until I tell you that you may.' He takes up his thermos and tea cup, puts his feet on the table and is at peace.

I am writing answers to questions about a train travelling at sixty miles an hour with fifteen minute stops at four stations. My elbow on the paper, my chin resting on the palm of my hand, words play in a place of sanctuary, in a part of my brain that sometimes overflows onto scraps of paper. The blank scribble paper handed to me with the test tempts my pen. Then the nib drinks deep and I forget about trains and stations.

I write:

He does it every time. He is behind me, snatching the paper from beneath my concealing hand. The sharp nib point digs into the page, almost rips it in two.

‘You will remain after class, Burton.'

My sigh says it all. The red cardigan is prickling, smothering me. I have to go back to the grocer's to pick up my basket, and the sugar and tea traded for our eggs; the walk home is long.

I sit on at my desk at three thirty while the room clears. I watch the headmaster, wait until he turns to me.

‘Do I note a spark of defiance in those eyes, Burton?' he asks.

My reply is a shrug. His attention returns to his pencils. He sharpens each one to a fine point, testing each point with a chubby index finger.

‘Remove that cardigan, Burton,' he says minutes later.

‘No.' I shake my head. I am angry. My arms burn. My legs burn.

He rises with effort, waddles down to my desk, takes my wrist in one hand then with the other pushes my left sleeve high.

The bruising is vivid. Thin red welts cut across my forearm in a cross. He nods, satisfied, then repeats the action with the other sleeve.

He shakes his head. ‘Take it off. What do think you are concealing, child?'

My eyes lowered, I strip off the prickly woollen cardigan and ball it on my desk. He purses baby lips and shakes his head at the cut on my upper arm. It is still red, raw, sore.

‘So,' he says, ‘what is a weed, Burton?'

‘Weed?' I spell the word on my fingers, my eyebrows raised in question.

‘Yes, a weed. Give me the definition of “weed”.'

‘Plant. Just grow. No care,' I sign.

‘And despite adversity, Burton, an apt analogy. A weed is the last plant to die in a drought and the first to show its head after rain. A weed is a survivor. Australia is full of weeds. They are the sustainers of life.' He sharpens two more pencils.

I remember the first day I watched him sharpening pencils with his little machine. I love pencils and blank white paper. He bribed me to remain in his classroom with his fat exercise books and his pencils with their fine sharp points.

But he is speaking again. ‘Do you know, Burton, you have sat in my classroom for the best part of three years now. Teaching you has become something of a challenge to me. I hoped to learn what goes on behind those inscrutable eyes. Give me the definition of “inscrutable”.'

‘Mysterious,' I spell on my fingers.

‘Mysterious.' He nods. ‘It does, Burton, it does indeed. You are no fool, so answer my question and please don't take me for a fool. How did you come by that bruising?'

‘Fall from tree. Very tall tree,' I sign.

‘A likely story. You insult my intelligence. However, let us see if we can do any better with this one. When the inspector and I returned to the classroom after lunch, we were for the most part hidden from your view. Given the optimum conditions I would consider him to be impossible to lip-read, yet you know his decision.'

‘No,' my head denies vehemently.

‘Then explain yourself,' he bawls, and I spring upright in my seat.

‘I warned you of the importance of this test. Your morning's work was neat, exemplary. This afternoon's appears to be written by a different hand.'

‘Answers right,' I defend.

‘Answers splattered by a spider puddling in an inkwell, while you write your little ditty, the content of which proves to me that you did indeed know our inspector's decision. Deny it you may until you are blue in the face, you frustrating, damnable child.'

Almost cringing from his anger, I slide to the side of my desk, one eye on the open door. The fat man sighs. He pours a drink.

‘You can hear. You hear something of speech.'

My head denies his statement.

‘A weed . . . a tall weed with its roots in sand! Perhaps it is better that you leave this hellhole, Burton. Get out of the sand. Perhaps there is a life out there for you.'

I shrug as he slides the drawer of his table open and starts rummaging there.

‘Do you have a dictionary at home?'

‘My brother. Leave in high school locker. Sometime bring home.'

‘But you'd have open access to a bible.'

I nod, my elbows on the desk now, my chin resting on my palm.

‘Have you read your bible?'

My reply is a gesture; right finger and thumb measure the approximate number of pages I have read.

‘Open your mind to me, child. It's a brilliant mind, locked inside a concrete cage. Did you enjoy your taste of the bible?'

My hands work hard. ‘Got no history. Got no story. Got no nothing, how man live. Just rules, rules, rules. All the same, ten, twenty, hundred time say same rule. Song of Solomon different. Little bit like Shakespeare.'

‘So the tall weed has been reading Shakespeare.'