One Sunday (11 page)

He hunched his shoulders, stretched his neck from side to side, easing the growing ache at the base of his skull which, according to Rob, might be a precursor to a stroke, brought on by the strain of living the sort of life he led. He was probably right, though Tom hadn't woken up with a headache, hadn't had it when he'd ridden back up that hill either, when he'd spoken to Joan Hunter. He'd be doing a lot more riding before this day was done. He'd have to get out to the Squire place.

Four or five years back, he and Rosie received an invitation to a fundraising party out there. Every Catholic in town received an invite – not that Tom was a Catholic, or Rosie, for that matter, though she'd gone looking for God in most of the churches after they'd lost their boys. They'd gone to that party, if only to get a look inside Squire's house.

Set in the middle of the bush and approached by a dusty track, it was like coming on some mythical place you might find in a fairytale book. At first glance you'd swear it was a monastery, or maybe two bluestone Catholic churches that had lost their faith halfway through the building and got married. They even had a shared steeple, or half a steeple, turned into a widow's walk. It must have cost a fortune to build.

There was an acre of green lawn out front of that mansion, and not a weed growing in it; rows of conifers, all trimmed to the same size; huge circular garden beds; and a maze, a real dinky-di maze that was the rose garden, with every rose ever grown blooming there. That's where Rosie had wandered for most of the afternoon, just smelling the roses.

The party was held in that garden, so Tom hadn't seen a lot of the interior, though he'd made a point of visiting the indoor lavatory at frequent intervals, taking his time finding his way to it each trip, then choosing to get lost on his way out.

That was the only time he'd seen Arthur Squire up close. He never came into town, rarely left the property, unless he was in the back seat of his father's car, but that day he'd been sitting in one of the rear rooms, his paid companion at his side, reading to him. Tom hadn't seen much, other than the dark glasses, or not until Arthur turned to face him – then he'd seen enough. What that bloody war did to that poor chap's face had made Tom thankful his own sons hadn't been sent home with half of their faces blown out of their earholes. At least he could remember his boys as they'd been when he'd waved them away up the gangplank, their bags on their backs.

‘You look after each other,' he'd yelled. He always used to say that when they walked off to school together, or went to play cricket. ‘You look after each other.'

‘We will. See ya soon, Dad,' they'd yelled back.

When they'd got the telegram about Johnny, Tom, too tied up in his own grief, thought Rosie was coping better than him. Then, two weeks later, they'd got the second telegram, the missing in action telegram. They hadn't found enough of Ronnie to be sure he was dead; he could have taken off, hidden in a hole, palled up with Johnny Turk.

Like hell he could have. Not that boy. Tom knew he was dead, but until that bloody war ended, and even after it ended, Rosie swore that the Germans had him. She'd gone down to meet every boat, had walked those lines of soldiers, showing a photograph of Ronnie, asking if they'd seen him, asking if any of them had been prisoners with him. Hoping was hopeless sometimes. Hope could send you stark raving mad sometimes.

‘God help us, love,' he said, and he walked to her, stooped and kissed her cheek, wanting to feel something for her that wasn't resentment or regret. He brushed the hair from her eyes, kissed her brow. ‘We'll be right, won't we? We've been through worse than this. You're going to come good for me soon, aren't you, love?'

And the phone started ringing and she hated that phone. She got him in the neck with a sharp elbow, and she was up, stomping, swiping her plate and that last china cup onto the floor. He ran for his office to stop the ringing before she started trying to drown it out.

Sunday, 8.50 am

‘I don't care if it's the devil himself. Don't you get off that line, Jessie.'

‘You do it, Lizzie. I've got that jumping heartbeat since he blew that whistle in my ear. What if it's for him again?'

‘Who'd be phoning him again? And he's not there, anyway. I saw him ride off down the lane towards the bridge. Make that connection, and do it now.'

Jessie did as she was bid, both sisters freezing, spectacles fogging. This was the call they'd been waiting for. It was Joan Hunter and she wanted to be connected to the Squires.

Helen picked up the telephone. ‘Father?' she said.

‘It's Mrs Hunter again, dear. You can clear the line now, Miss Martin,' Joan said.

Lizzie tapped a wooden spoon on the mouthpiece, then placed her hand over it.

‘I'm sorry to disturb you, Helen, but I do need to speak to Mrs Johnson urgently,' Joan said.

‘She's gone back to her house, Mrs Hunter.'

‘Is Mr Johnson about?' Again a reply to the negative. ‘I take it your father hasn't returned yet?'

‘No, and he's been gone since half past six. Have you heard anything about Rachael?'

Miss Lizzie wiped at her nasal drip. No sniffing this morning and little breathing. The window was closed, no breeze to rattle the blind, no outside noise to infiltrate.

‘I'm sure your father will be back soon, Helen. Please tell him, as soon as he returns, that it is imperative I speak to Mr or Mrs Johnson. It's regarding their daughter.'

‘Which one?'

‘This is not a good line, dear. I believe we have a couple of magpies perched on it. Thank you.' She didn't ring off, and the Martin sisters waited. Then she did it. ‘You can disconnect us now, Miss Martin.'

‘Oh,' Miss Jessie gasped, just before disconnecting.

‘She heard that, you silly little fool! She heard you!'

‘I wonder which daughter she was talking about. Has one of them had an accident, do you think?'

‘With what's been happening on that telephone today, the constable running around and now the city police coming up here, I think murder was done last night. One of those pickers has gone berserk, that's what I think. And haven't I been warning the town of that happening for years?'

‘You certainly have, dear.'

 

A few folk were about now, a lot of kids out playing, chooks squawking and every dog in town barking as Tom wheeled his bike back from the dairy and turned up the post office lane. Dusty weeds growing against dusty fences; the only colour at this time of year was a slash of orange spilling over the memorial park's fence – some creeper the drought couldn't kill, blooming its heart out. Tom lifted his bike over his side fence, then continued past Miss Lizzie's post office to the Murphys' ramshackle little place with its enclosed veranda, squashed tight between the post office and the brick bank building.

Not a Murphy in sight yet. Still trying to get rid of his headache, Tom decided to walk it off by doing a quick turn around the town circle. The grocer-drapery was on the corner of Station Street, the bakery on the other corner, then the butcher, the blacksmith-cum-garage, his house on the corner of Merton Road with the café-cum-greengrocer on the other side. The hardware store, Smith's boot shop, the Church of England minister's house.

‘Good morning,' Tom said. The minister was out, walking with a full bucket from his house to his church, watering some shrubs – and he wasn't wasting water either. Some mornings, you could near smell the ammonia. His shrubs looked healthy, though.

The parson continued on to his church, which logically enough was situated on the corner of Church Street. The Catholics' taller, bluestone church was directly behind it, fronting Church Street. Cross over that street and you ran into Hunter's house and hospital, its side fence bordering Willama Road, as did Tom's own side fence on the opposite side. And that was the town centre of Molliston.

Tom eyed a group of strangers walking by his veranda. Fruit pickers heading off late for work. Most of them would have started at dawn on a day like today.

‘Morning,' he said. Two of them nodded as they continued on their way, probably heading for O'Brien's place, out on Willama Road.

He stood a while watching them, until he sighted a hawk, and a big one. It was gliding the air currents, looking for some breakfast, maybe seeing Molliston as some discarded wheel from a forgotten wagon, only five spokes left to support its central green hub. Not a lot in this town for a hawk. With a lethargic flap of its wings it turned north, took a look at the bridge, then headed northwest. Maybe the pickings would be better in Willama.

Tom watched that hawk until it disappeared. From the top of the hill he could see a fair distance, though there was little once you passed by O'Brien's place, nothing but flat, bone-dry and vanquished land. He didn't get the chance to go to Willama often, but each time he did, it was a shock to the senses, driving out of that dead land and into a thriving county town, and each time he went there, he wondered what the hell he was doing wasting his life, walking in circles around this one-horse town. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck and wishing he was a hawk, before walking across to the tree and the solid shade cast by a trunk which supposedly measured twenty-seven feet at the base. He'd never measured it himself.

Over at the garage, Bill Morrison, the mechanic, propped a board against his petrol pump: HELP YOURSELF. Tom had spoken to him before he'd ridden off to the dairy. A good reliable bloke, Bill, his wife and kids were packed into the cabin, with half a dozen blokes on the truck's tray. Like that hawk, they were heading for Willama and Tom wished he could jump on the back of that truck and go with them.

He'd taken two telephone calls after breakfast; one had come from the Willama police, wanting his help in raising a search party. Two little girls, a three and a five year old, were taken – or had wandered off – from a property halfway between Molliston and Willama. Those chaps were pinning their hopes on an Indian hawker travelling around in a crimson and green van. He'd been seen near the property a few hours before the girls went missing. Even with the bushfire now under control, they couldn't pull the firefighters off it to go searching, because one puff of wind and it would break out again.

That's what had got Tom out of the house. He'd knocked on Bill and Andy Morrison's doors – they had the transport. He'd left it to them to round up the good bush men.

‘Morning,' Tom called to the baker, who was out sweeping his patch of dust while his wife cleaned the inside of his shop window. Tomorrow she'd decorate it with fancy cakes and buns set out on white doilies. His shop was closed on Sundays, but around five-thirty Sunday night half the town would start queuing at his side door, waiting for bread hot from his oven.

A great vantage point, this old tree, if you wanted to keep an eye on the town circle. During the windy months when those heavy limbs rocked and aged timber groaned, the bigwigs spoke about taking the tree down, bit by bit, of making a nice circular garden around its base, which might beautify the ring of unbeautiful shops and houses, but in Molliston, as in the cities, talk was cheap. Come summer of the red hot days, that talk ended. Gigs were parked in its shade when folk came to town to do their weekly shopping, their patient ponies standing between the shafts close to the water trough. Women met under that tree, catching up on news while their children played in the water trough or lost marbles beneath the horses' hooves. And when the sun went down and the louts came out to play, they claimed its branches, feeling safe enough up there to catcall and whistle at the girls.

The second telephone call had come from Russell Street, to inform Tom that Sergeant Clarrie snout-faced, bloody-minded Morgan was on his way up, Nicholas Squire having contacted them – and when he said hop, half of Melbourne asked, ‘How high, sir?'

Tom had meant to ride out to Squire's place and do his own hopping. He'd been heading towards the bridge when he'd sighted the widow Dolan's car parked out front of the dairy, so he'd called in to have a word with Willie Johnson – which gained him nothing more than a puncture in his rear tyre.

The world had gone mad last night, Rosie included – and with Clarrie Morgan on his way up here to see her in all her glory! He glanced at his house as Rosie thumped at that fancy parlour window she'd been so impressed with a few years back. Of all the days she could have chosen to put on a turn, she'd had to pick this one. He'd have to get Mary Murphy.

He walked across to her gate, lifted the latch, and a chorus of snoring greeted him. Late to bed and late to rise, those record playing buggers –they couldn't even stand the silence of sleep. A dark, low, ramshackle little hole, the Murphy house was a crowded one. Every one of Mary's sons had survived childhood and at least three were old enough to leave home, but none of them would.

Young Mike must have heard him open the gate. He lifted a wheat bag curtain and peered through the fly-wire. ‘What are you up to, Mr Thompson?'

‘Is your mother about, lad?'

‘She's having a shower for church. You don't want to see her about me, do you?'

‘Have you been doing something you shouldn't have been doing?' That kid was thirteen years old and had been running wild for the last five years.

‘Not me, Mr Thompson.'

‘Whose peaches were you knocking off this morning?'

‘Peaches? Nobody's. Fair dinkum. I don't need to. O'Brien's have got them going rotten out there. I'm allowed to take as many as I like.'

‘You had a wheat bag full of something on your pack rack when you rode in this morning.'

‘Rabbits. Do you want one?'

‘You haven't been trapping on Squire's land again, have you?'

‘If I was, I'd be doing him a favour. Not that I'm saying that I was.'

‘He didn't put those “No Trespassing” signs up for exercise, lad, and if you're the one ripping them down, then you're asking for big trouble,' Tom said, then got to the reason for his call. ‘I'm wondering if your mum could keep an eye out for Mrs Thompson for a while. I've got a lot to do today. And another thing, tell your brothers that two little girls have gone missing in Willama. Bill, from the garage, has gone over there, and Andy Morrison is leaving from the tree in half an hour and he's got room on his truck for as many as we can raise.'

‘I'll look after that for you, Mr Thompson – except for my mum. It's nearly church time.'

Tom reached for his watch. ‘What's happened to today? Righto then. It looks as if I'll be putting off my ride for a while. And no more trapping on Squire's property. Stay well away from his place, lad. He and his son have got good reason for liking their privacy.'

Tom wouldn't have minded a bit of that same privacy. Four kids were lined up alongside his veranda staring at his parlour window, or at Rosie. They wandered back to the tree as he approached and unlocked his door.

‘Clarrie bloody Morgan, projected time of arrival one-fifteen,' he snarled. ‘I hope the mongrel's wheels fall off. I hope he hits a bloody roo. Hope his fuel turns to vapour. I hope he gets galloping leprosy of his interfering bloody nose and it falls off before he gets here,' he said, locking the door behind him. ‘He doesn't know B from a bull's foot about the country. I hope he tries to take a short cut and gets lost and that his bloody car runs out of petrol and every pump is closed up for Sunday.

‘For Christ's sake, will you get away from that window, Rosie. You're becoming the laughing stock of this town. Can't you get that through your head?'

She couldn't. She screeched at him. He picked her up, carried her down to the kitchen, dumped her on a chair at the table, with her teapot, then headed fast out the back door. Those peaches had given him the gripes. Either them, or Rosie – or the news that Clarrie Morgan was on his way up here. Or the thought of those two little tots lost out there. They wouldn't stand a hope of surviving a day like this, unless they found the river, and if they found the river the searchers would probably find them in it.

Five women, twelve children and Murphy's dog now stood in the shade of the town tree, waiting for the priest. Father Ryan drove across from Willama for a nine-thirty service every Sunday morning. He was frequently late but the women didn't mind; it gave those who lived out of town an opportunity to catch up on news – and he cut down on his sermonising.

A bare sprinkling of males squatted on their haunches in the shade of the garage, talking drought, talking bushfire and keeping an eye on the youthful members of the congregation, who had gathered beneath the café's veranda. Small children whinged at their mother's skirts and those too old to whinge, ground ants into the gravel with the heels of their Sunday shoes or chased grasshoppers – just an ordinary Sunday morning in Molliston.