He Called Me Son (The Blountmere Street Series Book 1) (20 page)

‘Do you mind not going to school?
 
I mean, would you like to?’
 
She asked.

‘I’ve
been
to school.’
 
I didn’t want Gaylene to think I’d had no education at all.
 
‘In London I went to Blountmere Street Junior School.
 
Angela goes to Grigham.’
 
I left out
Road
and
Secondary School,
because I wanted it to sound posh. Of course I had no idea what school Angela went to or if, like me, she didn’t go to school at all.
 
It was more likely she was at work now.

‘So you were sent here instead.
 
Do you like it?’ she asked.

‘It’s all right.’
 
I knew I should sound more positive, but Gaylene didn’t appear to notice.

‘Come on, we’d better get this over to the men, or we’ll be in trouble.’
 
The butterfly girl flitted from behind the flax.

The heat of the day lingered into the evening and Joe lent on his hoe, surveying a row of lettuces in his garden.
 
Joe’s garden was so established, it seemed as if it had always been there.

‘You’re still having a lot to do with Paul Downston,’ I said.
 
How Joe could be pals with Paul was beyond my understanding, especially after all he’d said when Paul had all but knocked out my teeth.
 
Anyway, Joe hated arrogant, stuck up people.

‘Not really.’
 
Joe began hoeing.
 
‘At any rate he’s coming round to my way of thinking.’

Every successive day, the ground became drier and harder and the mountains had practically disappeared into the distance.
 
Wool bales filled the shed, piled to the roof.
 
The shearers had said that another day should do it.
 
The one with more hair on his body than his head, who for some reason was known as Curly, slurred that the Boss was sitting on a goldmine.
 
He called me
Rousie
, and said wool was fetching a high price, and to make sure the Boss gave me a bonus.

‘You think about it, Rousie.
 
Clever bloke like you should be able to persuade the Boss,’ he said, hardly moving his mouth.

But Gaylene Downston was all I could think about.
 
Some days, Blountmere Street, like the mountains, seemed to have receded from view.

With only one day left to carry the men’s tucker together, Gaylene and I lingered over our time walking across the paddock from the homestead.

‘I often wonder what you do over there in your quarters,’
 
Gaylene said, the wind blowing her skirt into a swirl of colour.

‘Joe reads his seed packets and books about gardening.’
 
I left out his recent obsession with
studying form
.
 
‘Murray messes around cleaning up and reading the paper, and Fergus and I read anything Fergus brings back from the library.
 
Mainly…’
 
All at once, I wanted to measure the distance our friendship had come.
 
‘Mainly, we read poetry.
 
We like to read it aloud.’
 
I waited for her response.

‘Who’s your favourite poet?’
 
She didn’t look surprised, or seem to think it was sissy.

‘I don’t know if I’ve got one particular favourite.
 
I like some of the First World War poets, but then I like Browning and well … lots of others as well.’
 
I hoped I didn’t sound a show off.
 
‘I don’t know much about it.
 
I just like reading it and listening to Fergus read it.’

‘Will you read some to me?’

I didn’t know if I’d get the opportunity, but I replied, ‘If you want me to.’

I was still thinking about reading Gaylene Downston poetry as I passed the shearers’ quarters on my way from the long drop that evening.
 
At first, I didn’t see Curley propped against the doorway.
 
As I passed, he caught hold of my arm.
 
‘Where you going, boy?’ he asked.
 
‘Pretty, with all that hair.’
 
He ran his hand up my neck.
 
At the same time, he pushed me through the door and into the shearer’s quarters.
 
I tried to pull away from him.

‘I’ve got to go.
 
I … ’

‘Not so fast.’
 
Curly pulled me towards him.
 
‘Much too pretty to go to waste.
 
Get that bonus, did you?’

‘Get off me.’
 
I struggled to free myself, but he easily overpowered me.
 
‘Get him off me,’ I urged the other shearer who was in his usual propped position on his bunk.
 
But his mouth curled into a lazy smile.

‘Come to me, pretty boy,’ Curley drawled.
 
His breath was rank, the hair on his body was sticky with sweat and lanolin.

‘Joe!
 
Fergus!
 
Murray!
 
Help me,’ I yelled.

‘They won’t hear yer.’
 
Curley’s breath came in short spurts.
 

‘Get off me.
 
Get your hands off me.’

But Curly had a strong grip .

‘Help me,’ I implored the other shearer, but he stayed where he was, still smiling.

Suddenly a hard slap caused the shearer’s head to slump forward.
 
He sagged to his knees, making a gurgling sound in his throat.
 

I hadn’t realized Murray had entered the hut, or that he was so strong and at the same time agile.

‘I’ll kill you if you lay a hand on the boy again.’
 
Murray dragged the shearer to a bunk and flung him on to it.

‘You’d better watch yer mate!’ Murray ordered the other shearer.
 
‘And make sure you keep your own filthy hands off both the boys.’
 
Murray’s anger made his voice sound strange.

‘You threatening me?’
 
The other shearer sneered.

‘I’m telling you, keep away from them or I swear I’ll murder the two of you’s.
 
Come on, boy, let’s get away from this place.’
 
Murray practically carried me out and into the freshest air I’d ever breathed.

To my relief, the shearers packed up and left the next day.

Murray and Fergus were busy with the clean up, leaving Joe and me alone in our quarters.

Joe pulled his orphanage suitcase from under the bed.
 
He struggled with the rusty catches, opened it, and pulled out the handkerchief he’d found on the quay at Wellington when we’d first arrived.
 
It was marked with an H in one corner.
 
He lifted the sacking from the window and checked to make sure Fergus and Murray weren’t around.
 
Then he unfolded the handkerchief and placed a five pound note into it.
 
‘Keep your mouth shut about this,’ he warned me.

‘Where did you get it from?’

‘Somebody.’

‘Who?’

‘It don’t matter.
 
Someone who got into a bit of trouble.’

‘Come on, Joe, we never keep secrets from each other.’
 
It wasn’t true.
 
I hadn’t told him about Curley.
 
Murray said it was best kept between the two of us.
 
That was where I intended to keep it.
 
The shame flamed inside me like a burnt-off paddock, leaving me feeling blackened and ugly.

‘I told you he’d come in handy one day, didn’t I?’

‘Paul Downston?
 
You got the money from Paul Downston.
 
How?’

‘I found out he’d got himself into a bit of trouble.’

‘What sort of trouble?”

‘If you really want to know, when we were staying at the homestead, I had a bit of a nosey.
 
You’ve got to take your chances when you can.
 
Anyhow, I came across a few things that pointed to the fact the Boss’ boy had got himself into a bit of strife with a girl.’
 
Joe winked.

‘How come the Missus didn’t find out when she cleaned his room?’

‘He had the evidence hidden like the blinkin’ Crown Jewels, but I had this feeling, like I do with the gee gees.’

‘So that’s why you’ve been … ’

‘Toadying to him?
 
Too right.
 
I wouldn’t touch him with a barge pole otherwise.’

‘So why did he give you the money?’

‘Use your loaf.’
 
Joe tapped his head with his forefinger.
 
‘I told him I’d grass on him to his old man if he didn’t give me a tenner.’

‘Ten pounds!’
 
The Gang might have threatened to squeal on a kid for some of Old Boy Barker’s special mix, even a packet of fags, but ten pounds!

‘Where did he get the money?’

‘I don’t care where he got it, though I reckon it came from the same place as the cash to pay the girl off: his uncle on the West Coast.’

Joe rummaged in his pocket and brought out another five pound note.
 
‘Here’s your half.’
 
He handed it to me.
 
‘Share and share alike.
 
A fiver each.’

‘But it’s blackmail.’

‘D’you want it, or don’t you?’

I took the money and stuffed it in my pocket.
 
When the time was right, I’d still ask the Boss for a bonus.
 
I deserved it.

Chapter Seventeen

I felt round my chin for the hairs that had begun growing on it.
 
I wondered whether I should ask Murray if I could borrow his razor.
 
Joe said he couldn’t see any bum fuzz and not to be so daft.
 
‘Since you’ve become keen on that Gay Whatsername, you’ve done nothing but worry about your looks,’ he said.

It wasn’t only what I looked like that concerned me.
 
Without warning, my voice could alternate from a growl to a squeak.
  
Fergus said I was becoming a man, and laughed.

One blazing day followed another, and we all had our Sunday bath outside behind the bushes.
 
Joe was, as usual, the last to have his.
 
When he finished, he poured the remainder of the water onto his garden where the scum left a grey residue.

‘Are you going to help me or stand there stroking your chin all night?
 
What’re you trying to do?
 
Rub hairs on to it, or get rid of the ones you reckon you’ve already got?’

Due to Joe’s philosophy to “waste not, want not”, the garden wasn’t only vibrant with colour but crammed with vegetable plants; healthy ones at that.
 
Hardly a drop of liquid in our quarters went to waste.
 
If I didn’t watch over my cup of tea, even before I’d taken the first sip, Joe had the cup in his hand to throw over some plant or the other.
 
I had to admit, Joe’s veges improved the nightly boil-up.
 
Ang and I used to make shuddery sounds and refuse to eat the vegetables Mum put on our plates.

‘The veges’ll be good for Christmas,’
 
Joe scraped the ladle along the bottom of the bath, causing me to grit my teeth.
 
‘It’ll be here soon,’ he continued.
 
‘We’ll have to get Murray to tell us what’s in the shops.
 
It’ll be no good asking Fergus.
 
He’ll be knocking them back at the
The Travellers
.’

‘Why d’you want to know?’
 
I asked.
 
We never took any notice of Christmas.
 
There didn’t seem much point when it was like any other day, except that in this upside down land, it was in the summer.
 
‘There aren’t many shops in the township, Fergus says.’

Joe swiped at a fly.
 
‘Don’t matter.
 
They’ll be
something,
and now we’ve got some dough, we can buy presents.
 
I told you having a bit behind you would make a difference, didn’t I?’

‘But we’re not allowed off the farm.’

‘We’ll have to ask Murray to get them for us.’

‘That’s daft.
 
Murray and Fergus are the only people we’ll be buying presents for, except something for each other.’

‘Leave it to me, I’ll think of something.
 
Anyway, don’t you want to buy that Gay Whatsername a present seeing as you fancy her?’

‘We talk when we see each other, that’s all.’
 

Joe sniffed.

‘I haven’t seen you talking to Paul Downston lately,’ I said to direct the conversation away from Gaylene.

‘Why should I?
 
Our bit of business is finished.
 
I don’t want to talk to him, and he don’t want to pass the time with me.
 
I’ve got what I wanted out of him.’
 
Joe chuckled.
 
‘Until the next time.
 
I haven’t finished with him yet.’

Whenever I was working reasonably close to the homestead and her old man wasn’t around, Gaylene still seemed to find a way to meet me.
 
The others said it was because she had it bad for me.
 
Murray told me never to trust a woman, while Fergus said true love was a precious thing.
 
All I knew was that when Gaylene sat next to me, I was conscious of the feel of her skin, the sunshine smell of her clothes and her slender fingers making me think of swans’ necks.

‘I expect you saw the Queen all the time when you lived in London.
 
What’s she like?
 
Is she as small as they say she is?’
 
Gaylene asked, the next time we met, as we sat well hidden behind a clump of bushes.

‘I’ve never seen her, so I don’t know.’

Gaylene looked disappointed.
 
‘But you must have been to Buckingham Palace.’

‘No, I haven’t.’
 
Buckingham Palace was the last place the Gang had thought of visiting.
 
The only time I had been to the West End had been for Fred and Lori’s wedding.
 
Dennis once went to Madam Tussauds.
 
He told us all about the Chamber of Horrors.
 
I had nightmares about it for weeks afterwards.

‘The Queen came to New Zealand once,’ Gaylene continued.
 
‘Our whole school went.
 
We waited on the side of the road for hours.
 
We waved flags, but her car drove past so quickly, we couldn’t see her.
 
If I’d lived in London I’d definitely have gone to Buckingham Palace.’

I felt an urge to put my arm around her shoulders to say how sorry I was she hadn’t been able to go.
 
‘I’ve been on a London underground train,’ I said, hoping it would make up for not having seen the Queen or Buckingham Palace.

‘What’s it like?’

‘Crowded – well, it is in the mornings and at night when everyone’s going or coming home from work.’
 
I kept my hands between my knees, in case they strayed and stroked her arms.
 
‘During The War, people slept on the platforms.’

‘Really?’

‘I think Mum might have taken Angela and me down there to sleep sometimes.
 
It was like a long air raid shelter.’

‘Was the poetry you read me about that War?’

‘No.
 
That was poetry from The First World War.
 
Fergus said a whole generation of men enlisted to fight for their country.
 
But thousands were injured and killed.
 
He said that blokes like Joe and me lied about their age so that they could fight.
 
They thought they were going to have an adventure and that it would soon be over.
 
Instead it lasted four years.’
 
I paused and gazed ahead.
 
It wasn’t unlike us orphan boys.
 
We thought we were being sent to have an adventure.
 
But we were banished from home forever.
 
We were the ones who never returned.

 
‘I’ve copied a war poem.
 
D’you want to hear it?’
 
I asked.

As an answer, Gaylene moved closer, and I felt a powerful need to protect her.

As bronze may be much beautified

By lying in the dark damp soil

So men who fade in dust of warfare fade

Fairer, and sorrow blooms their soul.

Like pearls which noble women wear

And, tarnishing, awhile confide

Unto the old salt sea to feed

Many return more lustrous than they were

But what of them buried profound

Buried where we can no more find

Who lie dark for ever under abysmal war?

Bees hummed in the manuka bushes, drowsily, without haste.
 
Birds sang a midday song on scented air - an eternity away from the trenches, an eternity away from … I cuffed my eyes before the tears could spill.

The evening air held the day’s heat as Murray, Fergus, Joe and I sat on the ridge outside our quarters.
  
I looked at the distant river, a thin band at this time of year.
 
My three allocated strawberries from Joe’s garden, together with a sugar lump, remained untouched in my bowl.

‘You’re not still mooning about that Gay Whatshername?’

‘And what’s wrong with that, Joe me lad?
 
Love’s never to be taken for granted.
 
To be sure, one day all you’re left with are bitter-sweet memories,’ Fergus answered.

‘Well,
I
ain’t going in for all that soppy love stuff.’

Murray reclined on the grass and pulled his hat over his face.
 
‘Too right, boy, never trust a woman.’

At that moment, it wasn’t Gaylene who was on my mind, although she had been mostly every minute I was awake and often when I was asleep.
 
This evening, and throughout the day, however, she had only shared my thoughts.

That morning, before the light had broken and the birds had begun their dawn call, I experienced a stirring as if someone was trying to nudge me awake.
 
I was sure it wasn’t a dream.
 
I could see Fergus’ form rise and fall in slumber, hear Murray snoring and Joe’s incoherent sleep talk.
 
It had been a bizarre impression of someone wanting to reach me.

I sat up in bed, straining for more but there was nothing, only the desperation of a human spirit trying to touch my own.
 

‘What d’you want?’
 
I whispered into the stillness, but Joe muttered was it time to get up and the connection had been severed.

Throughout the day, I tried to re-establish the link.
 
My thoughts became caught up with a thousand others, as they had when I tried to communicate with Paula at the orphanage.
 
I wondered if it truly had been Paula.
 
If so, I had let her down.

The next time Gaylene and I met was behind an old shed the rabbiters used.
 
It was the ideal place to talk, she said, as she plucked at a blade of grass.
 
She was wearing a yellow headband in an attempt to capture her curls, but a few wayward tendrils that looked like corkscrews had escaped.

Although it was two days ago, my strange early morning experience was still with me.
 
My mind kept wandering back to it and I had no idea how Gaylene and I had got on to the subject of Downston and the Missus.
 
They were the last people I wanted to talk about, but Gaylene said, ‘Mum was going to be a teacher.
 
All her family were teachers.
 
Then she met Dad and gave up her training.’
 
She hugged her knees.
 
‘You should see their wedding photos.
 
She was very beautiful.’

Trying to imagine the Missus as a beautiful bride was as difficult as liberating my thoughts to reach someone thousands of miles away.
 
I found it impossible to understand why anyone would want to give up everything for a man like Downston, but, then, Mum had done the same thing for our Old Man.

‘Mum’s never really taken to farm life,’ Gaylene continued.
 
‘Things that farmers’ wives are supposed to do don’t interest her.
 
She doesn’t like making jam and bottling fruit or cooking, although she has to do it.’

I thought of the boil-up and nodded.

‘I try to help as much as I can when I’m home from school,’ Gaylene paused.
 
‘You see, it was when I was born she had a stroke.
 
She’s never properly got over it.
 
She’s lost all her confidence.
 
The men’s quarters are about as far as she ever gets.
 
I sometimes think if I hadn’t been born Mum would still be all right and that it’s my fault.’

‘Of course it’s wasn’t your fault.’
 
I stroked her hand.
 
When I realized what I was doing, I became embarrassed, and placed it back in her lap.
 
I was about to say she was silly to blame herself, but I often thought if it wasn’t for me and Angela, the Old Man might have been different.
 
Maybe it was only because of
me
.
 
If it wasn’t for
me,
Mum and the Old Man might have got on better.

‘So Downston’s away, is he?’ Joe asked.