Mallawindy (9 page)

The bruising was vivid. Welts cut her forearm in a cross. He nodded, satisfied, then repeated the action with the other sleeve. ‘I heard that your illustrious parent had risen from the dead,' he commented, returning to his seat where he sat again in silence while
she removed the cardigan, tossing it over the back of her seat.
His baby lips pursed and he shook his head at the deep purple mark on her throat. ‘So,' he said. ‘So, what is a weed, Burton?'

‘Weed?' she spelt, eyebrows raised in question.

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

‘Plant. Grow with no cultivate. No care, just grow. Accident,' she signed.

‘And despite adversaries, Burton. Very apt. An apt analogy. A weed, Burton, is the last plant to die in a drought and the first to show its head after the rain. A weed is a survivor. Australia is full of weeds. They are the sustainers of life.' He sharpened two more pencils and she watched him, remembering the first day he attempted to imprison her in this same room. He had given her a new book and a sharp pencil that day. She had thrown the book at his head, and stabbed his wrist with the pencil.

‘You have sat in my classroom for the best part of four years, Burton. Watching you, teaching you, became a challenge to me. I wanted to find out what went on behind those inscrutable eyes. I never did. Give me the definition of inscrutable.'

‘Mysterious,' she spelt with her fingers.

‘Mysterious,' he nodded. ‘You have made good use of our classroom dictionary. I have never taken you for a fool, Burton, so answer me a question and please don't take me for a fool. How did you come by that ... that bruising?'

‘Fell from tree. Very high tree.'

‘You insult me, insult my intelligence. However, let us see if we can do any better with this one. You were in the library when the sniffer 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 virtually impossible to lip read, yet you knew his decision.'

‘No,' her head denied.

‘Then explain yourself,' he bawled, and she sprang upright in her seat. ‘I warned you of the importance of today's tests. I told
you that your admittance to the high school next year may depen
d on your results. Your morning's work was neat, exemplary. This afternoon's is a protest in blots.'

‘Answers still right,' she defended.

‘Answers scrawled by a spider after a swim in an inkwell. You knew the sniffer's decision. Deny it you may until you are blue in the face, you frustrating, damnable child.'

Ann slid to the side of her desk, one eye on the open door while the fat man poured himself a drink. He knew her too well, had spent too much time watching her.

There was little she remembered of the years before this classroom, but the years since were clear. He had made them clear, refusing to allow her to let her yesterdays disappear into the dark place in her head.

‘Why do you write your poems in my arithmetic classes, Burton? Why not in English or history?'

‘Don't know.'

‘Do know. Open your mind to me. It's a brilliant mind, locked inside a concrete cage. Set it free. Let it live. Why in arithmetic?'

‘Word come. Head full with talk word. No good English. I must find right talk word for English. No good history. Same thing. Number different, different side. No think with talk word, only number. So words come from other one ... other side. I write down. So.'

‘Words come from the other side and she writes them down amid the equations. A tall weed with its roots in the sand will one day bloom with a brilliance to eclipse the hothouse flowers.' He slid the drawer of his desk open and started rummaging there, while she waited for the next burst. It was long in coming. ‘Do you have a dictionary at home?'

‘Benjie have one time for high school. Mum tell him sell all book when he leave high school.'

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

She nodded, her elbows on the desk, her chin resting on her palm.

‘Have you read your Bible?'

‘Big bit.' A gesture, her right finger and thumb, measured the approximate thickness of pages read.

‘Did you enjoy it?'

‘Read for ... for promise,' she said with a shrug. ‘Stupid. Got no story. Got no showing of how man live before ... just rules, rules, rules ... all same. Ten, twenty, hundred time, same rule. Song of Solomon, I like. Little bit like Shakespeare.'

‘So the tall weed of Mallawindy has read a little bit of Shakespeare.'

‘Little bit. My father, he have book. I must not touch. When he not come back, long time, I touch a lot.' She gnawed on her lip, then she looked the fat man in the eye. ‘I take one for me. Put my name on.'

‘Which book?'

‘Just poem. I love poem. Honey Breath special. Love middl
e bit.'

‘Oh how shall summer's honey breath hold out against the wreck full siege of battering days. When rocks impregnable are not so stout, nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays. Oh, fearful meditation, where alack shall time's best jewel from time's chest lie hid, Or what strong arm can hold his swift foot back or who his spoil of beauty can forbid,' Malcolm quoted.

She sat barely breathing until he was done.

‘What age are you now, child?'

‘Thirteen.' Five fingers shown twice and then three, finger spelling, ‘Soon.'

‘The high school headmaster has the final word, you know. He may be approachable. If he is prepared to accept you then we have a chance.' He sighed and looked out the window. ‘If I had started earlier perhaps? But it's too late now. That has been the story of my life. I have always been a little too late.' Though he appeared
to be speaking more to himself than Ann, she dared not look away.

‘Headmaster of a two-roomed school in a one-horse town. Headmaster with a drinking problem, I might add,' and he sipped from his tea cup to prove he spoke no lie. ‘I hate this town, Burton. When I landed here, I had a wife and son. I had dreams. I despise this town. Its dust, its flies, but mainly its people. My wife and son are buried in the cemetery and I can never leave them. Never return to old England. If they put me out to pasture, I have no place to go, so what do I do? Doctors tell me that alcohol kills, and I say, but slowly, too slowly. What do you think of that, Miss Burton?'

‘I know. Your wife, your son dead. Your son get encephalitis. He was friend for my Johnny. Same name, same year. When your Johnny die. My Johnny go.'

‘Your Johnny. My Johnny. All gone, Miss Burton. All gone. It's a fly trap, Mallawindy. One of those filthy, sticky, pink things you used to see years ago. When they were new, they held a strange fascination, but as the months passed they built up a covering of flies and dust. I looked up at Mallawindy one day, Burton, and I saw myself dangling there. Stuck fast. Not even struggling. The fly trap was no longer sticky, yet still so hard to break away from.'

He removed his glasses, placing them on the table. Ann saw his eyes for the first time, free of their magnification. They were blue, so misty blue, like an autumn sky when it knows a long, cold winter is coming. ‘I understand your talk,' she signed. ‘I understand. Like fly trap, become habit. Better stay stuck, you think. Oh yes, better stuck in the old fly trap, Mallawindy. New trap maybe worse, but sometime maybe new fly trap not worse, but better.'

‘You may be right, Burton. You may be right,' he said softly, rubbing his eyes with fingertips before replacing his spectacles. ‘Off you go, child, or I'll have your arisen parent on my doorstep, accusing me of foul play. Take this with you.' From his table he picked up a small blue dictionary, offering it to her as she replaced her sweater. ‘It was my John's,' he said. ‘It still has his name on it.'

He opened the book, touching the script on the flyleaf with a
fat finger. ‘Tell me Burton, is it fair that disease should steal into this town, pass by the Aborigines' camp, skip over the Wests and the Dooleys with their uncountable hoards, who probably wouldn
't have missed an offspring or two, then take my boy?' He fondled the tiny book for a moment more, then he tossed it to her and watched her sure hands catch and hold it. ‘Perhaps there is a good lesson to be learned there. Man must never place all of his eggs in one basket.'

‘No. Maybe fall over, spill all eggs. Two basket carry more eggs, make better balance, but sometimes fall with two basket, break more egg. Sometime better be careful, only take one basket, I think.'

‘You speak from a wealth of experience with eggs, child,' he smiled.

Ann smiled with him. ‘Yes,' she nodded. ‘Thank you for your Johnny book,' she signed. ‘Wish I have bigger word for say thank you. Not say what I feel. I will treasure your Johnny book forever.'

‘Forever is too long, Burton. Far too long, and too far away.'

‘Yes, forever. Sorry for messy test paper.' Signing, she backed away, the book clasped to her breast.

‘Don't give up hope of high school. Other avenues are open to us. Good afternoon, child. Put your name in that book.'

the books

On the final day of the school year, Malcolm declared a half day holiday and the ladies at the Shire Hall cursed him. He didn't care. His Thermos was empty. He'd promised himself an early appointment at the hotel.

It was after seven before he left the hotel to drive to the Burton's property. It had been a long afternoon, but well spent. He was barely able to stand.

‘What do you want here, you bloody old drunk?' Jack Burton opened the front door, found Malcolm gaining support from the wall.

‘A slight case of the pot and the kettle, Mr Burton. However, I am here tonight to see the child, Ann,' Malcolm said, eyeing the man who had it all, while he had nothing.

He led Ann back to his car and opened the boot, steadying himself a moment before hauling a heavy case to the dust at her feet.

She could smell the strong scent of brandy. Wide-eyed, she stood before him, her head shaking, denying the gift, but he placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘My only treasures,' he said. ‘Into your hands I commend them. Fare thee well, child. You prevented my life being a total fiasco.' His bulk squeezed into the small vehicle, he drove away.

The case was old, heavy. Ann couldn't lift it. She squatted beside it, opened its clips, then peered at its contents. Benjie came and together they struggled with it to the verandah, then Jack took charge, lifting it easily to the kitchen table.

Open mouthed, the children grouped around the treasure trove of books, old books, expensive books. Jack handled them, selected, rejected, until he found Macbeth. An unfamiliar smile on his
lips, he walked to the lounge room where he sat close to the light, reading. It was almost ten before he handed the book to Ann. ‘Treasure them,' he said. ‘I envy the bastard's guts.'

As Ann took the book, a sheet of paper fluttered to the floor. She stooped, picked it up.

Miss Ann Elizabeth Burton,

I defer to our good friend Mr Shakespeare, in an attempt to explain my actions.

‘
When to the session of sweet silent thought,

I summon up remembrances of things passed,

I sigh the lack of many things I sought

and with old woes, new wail my dear times waste.

Then can I drown an eye unused to flow,

for precious friend hid in deaths dateless night,

And weep afresh loves long since cancelled woe

and moan expense of many a vanished sight.

Then can I grieve at grievances forgone

and heavily from woe to woe tell ore,

The sad account of for bemoaned moan,

which I now pay as if not paid before.
'

Words that build a bridge across the centuries, child, and relevant to me tonight. I am pleased you finally found Macbeth. Devour him, and may he whet your appetite for more, and if on reading my words, you summon up
remembrances of a fat old fool whom you once knew, then let them be kind.

God bless,

Malcolm Fletcher.

Ann understood – as her father had. She ran for the river. Her shoes left on the bank, she dived cleanly into the water, emerging on Bessy's bank. Through the paddock she ran, dodging cows, and the mad bull. Across the lucern paddock, treading where she would, and under a split-rail fence, built by her great-grandfather.

No time to catch her breath, to consider the stitch in her side, she sprinted down the road. There was no thought of what she'd do when she got there, but just to get there. Then she was in the dark of the school yard, sprinting across the playing field and in through the headmaster's side gate.

Only one light showed in the weatherboard house. She ran to the window, great gasps of air replenishing muscles as she cupped her hands to her eyes and peered through.

And he was there. He was on his knees convulsed in pain.

Get someone. Have to get help. Only now she thought of the ‘what', but within the thought came another.

Can't run any more. No time now.

What can we do?

Something.

She ran to the back door, pushed it wide, entered the strange kitchen and looked down at her teacher.

‘Ahhh,' she yelled, her hands flying. He heard her. One hand signalled her away. She turned to the table, where a small brown bottle stood beside a taller relative. Empty. Ann recognised the small bottle. Her mother used weedkiller. She reached for it, held it beneath the light, looking for she knew not what.

And she saw it.

Induce vomiting.
Then the hand holding the small bottle flung it at the wall where it smashed, spraying its glass to the sink, to
the floor, and to her one God, the old God of knowledge, now grovelling on the floor like a grey slug.

Salt. Soap. Have to prop him. First have to prop him. Can't let him get on his back. He'll choke like Linda Alice choked on vomit.

Still sucking air, Ann up-ended the kitchen table as professionally as her father. Dragging it behind the convulsing hulk, she propped it on its side, its four legs jammed against a kitchen bench. Perhaps it would hold him. She knew she'd never move him should he roll onto his back. The salt shaker, fallen to the floor, was snatched up, emptied into the milk jug, then half filled with water, a finger used to stir it.

He wouldn't take it. His hand tried to wipe her presence away. His mouth gaped open, his face contorted as his stomach attempted to refuse its last supper.

Ann stamped her bare foot, her eyes wide, angry. ‘Mmmm,' she demanded. ‘Mmmm.' Again she stamped her foot.

‘Go,' he signed.

She pushed the jug at him. His hand hit it, spilled the saline water, and she jumped away.

Have to hold his head still. Have to grab his hair. Have to pour it down his throat.

She couldn't touch him. An internal scream of desperation seized her throat as she stood back from the dying man. Her heart was racing, her mind numb with fear and too much air. Have to leave him. Run for Constable Johnson.

Too late.

I can't do anything.

He gave us everything. Him. Only him. He wouldn't give up. You are the strong one, Annie Blue Dress. Remember. Aunty May said only diamonds can cut a looking-glass. Remember. Do what must be done, Annie Blue Dress.

She screamed then. Her hand grasped at his thick grey hair. She dragged his head pack, poured the salt water over his nose,
his mouth. Wasted it, but she found more salt beside the stove, mixed more.

There was so much body and too little space. She had to lean on his body. Again she dragged his head back, forcing him to see
her. His lips parted and she poured liquid into his mouth. He spat it back at her, clamped his jaws, wept.

And she hit him. She punched his shoulder, slapped his fat face, pounded his heaving flabby chest, refusing to admit to failure. Her lips were mouthing one word, over and over. ‘Drink. Drink. Drink. Drink.'

He saw no word. His eyes had closed, as she had closed her eyes to his words so many years ago. His body heaved and his heavy legs pounded the floor.

She moved to the side, knowing there was only one way. There had only ever been one way. Perhaps it was too late. ‘Du wa,' she whispered, the word tested and found wanting. ‘Dur-igh.'

She coughed and tried again. ‘Dur-wingk,' she said. It was deep. It rasped against vocal cords unused for too many years, but the word sounded near enough in her ears. ‘Der-wingk,' she scolded. Loud. Loud enough.

And his eyes opened. He looked at her.

‘Du-wink, darm-oo,' she demanded, emphasising her word with the stamp of her foot.

His eyes misted. The child, who held his life in her hands, blurred, faded as he felt the jug again pressed to his lips. And his hand reached out for life, and to the slim hand that held it, and he drank the salty brew down like nectar.

Vileness gushed from him in unending stream. She sought a receptacle and found a bucket too late; still her face was pleased as the room filled with the stench of her victory.

‘Derwink,' she said, when the gush had slowed. ‘Dewink,' she said gently.

And he drank again from the new cup she held to his lips, and again his abused stomach expelled its contents while she guided
his head with her hands.

Three times in the long night she thought him lost, and three times he vomited himself into awareness. At 5 a.m. he coughed, stirred, and the girl, anticipating, held a towel to his lips, protecting the floor she'd cleaned too many times. But the
night was over, the roosters were signalling dawn and for Malcolm Fletcher, the worst was over.

Helpless, weak, sick, he slumped against the table, watching her worried face, waiting for her voice again, knowing, as her father had known, that she could hear.

‘You m-ore derwink?' she asked, her voice deep and husky, but her pitch was good and her consonants were clear. He closed his eyes, too weak to control the tears blinding them.

Not deaf. Never deaf.

‘Too much,' he whispered. It was all too much, the emotion, the pain, the overwhelming joy, and the nausea. He wanted to lie on his back and die, and he wanted to sit all night and listen to the words he, the drunk, the fat old failure had forced from her. For too long no-one had cared if he lived or died. But she cared. A thirteen-year-old child had cared enough to break free of her cage of silence to give him back his life.

Feeling the warm cloth on his face again, he opened his eyes to her, wanting to pour out his words, words he knew would make her run from him. His own weakness saved him.

‘You sur-leep. On su-sum-mig. No on ba-ag.'

‘Not on back,' he agreed. ‘On stomach.'

She was still creating the words with her hands but her tongue was also making the words, determined words, and making its own slow corrections.

‘Mm-my ba-bee, oolin-da, on ba-ag. Die on ba-ack.'

‘Baby Linda. Yes, child. Yes, child.'

He looked at her eyes, twin fires beneath the naked light globe, and he saw each small success imprinted there. He did as she bid him. It took him forever. His arms were heavy sacks of grain, each
leg the trunk of a gum tree. It took him forever and only when she was satisfied did she cover him with a blanket.

‘I go,' she said. ‘I come. B-b-ber-wing m-mil-g. You dewing milg.'

‘Milk,' he whispered. ‘Yes, child. You come back to me.'

Only when the door had closed behind her did he allow his emotions free rein. Howling aloud, his bulk convulsed with the weight of his tears. He bawled for the son he had lost, and for the girl he had found, and because she was Jack Burton's daughter. He blubbered like a baby because she looked like Jack Burton. She had his features, his height, his hands and his colouring, but it was not Jack Burton she had spoken to.

He tried to laugh, but bawled again into his pillow. He wanted to live, to live forever.

Comical, bloated, blubbering mass of man, waiting for a child to come with the milk, a child whose first stumbling words in seven years had been given with trust to her teacher.