Sydney Bridge Upside Down (22 page)

He had not talked about Bonnie Brae since that night. I hoped he hadn’t given up the plan to move there. It would be good to get away from Sam Phelps and Fat Norman. And what fun would there be here when they pulled down the works?

I heard voices. Buster and Caroline. I heard the front door being opened. Buster and Caroline were going for a ride. Caroline was lucky. I wished I could be on the Indian, zooming round bends, speeding through gullies, whizzing over hills.

But when I peeped from behind the blind, I was surprised to see them walk past the Indian and stroll along the road. Caroline was happy. I saw her turn to laugh at Buster, and she looked very beautiful. She wore a white dress, her blue sandals were the ones she usually wore when she went to the beach. How brown her arms and legs were! They had been very pale when she came to us, so many weeks before. She seemed small beside Buster. Buster, with his sort of golden-coloured arms and legs and his ginger hair and his bright yellow-and-blue shirt and his white shorts, looked the right person to be walking with Caroline; it seemed right for them to be together, to hold hands as they walked. Tucked under Buster’s right arm was the green travelling-rug from Caroline’s room. They were going to the beach to sit in the sun.

I left the window, but I did not get back under the bed. I sat on the bed, wondering. I wondered if I should go along the road too. I wondered if I had been silly to stay inside so often lately. Seeing Buster looking so strong made me realise how skinny and weak I had become. I no longer did exercises, so I was no longer strong. I no longer ran around much in the sun, so my skin had gone pale, the freckles were more noticeable. No wonder I thought Buster looked right as he walked with Caroline; it was because I knew I would look wrong if I walked with her. Once I was seldom far from her; now I was seldom near her. The times when I played with her, when she read to me from her autobiography, when we explored, seemed long long ago; it was hard now to believe that I had been the one with her, the one who had saved her from Mr Wiggins—

I’d go to the works. I would have a last look at the ruins. No ghosts were there in the daytime, the sun would be shining, it would be warm and secret on the top floor, I could sit there for the last time. One day in years to come I might wonder what it was like in Calliope Bay, and I would remember how I had gone for the last time to the works, and I would not need to wonder any more. I must go there now.

I was soon there. Nobody, I was sure, had seen me leave the house. Nobody had watched me walking slowly along the road. Nobody had spied on me as I crept past the furnace-house and into the works. And all alone, making no sound, I went to the top of the works and I sat there, high above everybody. And it was the last time I would ever be there.

No more bricks for the cave. In fact, no more cave. If we went to Bonnie Brae, we would have to find different ways of playing. Anyhow, feeling like I did about Dibs and the other kids here, I would want different ways wherever I was. There would be many more kids to choose from at Bonnie Brae, many more places to explore. Yes, it would be good to live in Bonnie Brae. There was no fun left in Calliope Bay. I could look down from here and see it all, and nothing about it would surprise me—

I got up and went to the crumbly wall and looked across the paddocks and the beach. I looked at the sea, green and shiny in the sun, then at the wharf. Right at the end of the wharf were Cal and Dibs and Bruce. I could see them sitting on the edge, waiting for the barracoutas to bite. Back along the wharf, not far from the woolshed, were Sam Phelps and Sydney Bridge Upside Down. I could see Sam Phelps carrying a sack from the woolshed to the wagon. Sydney Bridge Upside Down just stood there.

I looked at the beach. Three of the small Kelly kids were playing near the rocks. I could see no grown-ups. Then I saw Caroline on a dune. She had run up from the other side and now she was looking back, and I knew she was laughing. She began running again, and Buster came in sight and ran after her along the dune, then she jumped out of sight and so did Buster. I watched, hoping they would appear again, but the minutes went by and they stayed out of sight. If I went on looking long enough, I thought, I would probably see them going for a swim. They were lucky to feel like playing in the sand and swimming. A few weeks ago I would have felt the same way; now I did not
care. I would rather stay here at the top of the works.

I looked in other directions. I looked at the river crossing. I looked at the swamp, then back at the river crossing. I looked at the trees near the swamp, I looked harder at the swamp, as if I might see something from here that I had not been able to see when I was nearer, jewels sparkling in the sunlight maybe. I looked at the houses, our roof the brightest of all, our garden the tidiest. I looked at the passion-fruit shed up from the swamp, then I looked again at the swamp. Then at the river and the road that went on across the countryside, up hills and around bends and through gullies, all the way to Bonnie Brae, and further still if you were escaping.

I saw Fat Norman. He must have been walking close to the houses, because he suddenly popped into sight from behind the Knowles house. Now he was turning to the road. He was walking along the road towards the works. He was walking quickly, as if he had something urgent to do.

I looked at the wharf. Cal and Dibs and Bruce were still waiting for the barracoutas to bite.

Fat Norman did not turn from the road when he was near the works, down there below me. He walked on, he was heading for the railway line.

Cal and Dibs and Bruce were still waiting.

Fat Norman was on the railway line.

Cal and Dibs and Bruce were—

I saw Caroline and Buster. They were crossing the paddocks from the dunes. Fat Norman would see them if he looked their way; he didn’t. They didn’t look across
at him, either. They were strolling, holding hands. Buster had the rug under his arm. They must be coming for their bathing-suits.

Fat Norman was striding along the railway line.

Cal and Dibs and Bruce were standing. Dibs was pulling in his line, the others were staring at the water.

Caroline and Buster were nearing the works. They would be out of sight while they short-cutted to the road.

Fat Norman was striding on.

I saw Sam Phelps leave the wagon and go behind the woolshed. Sydney Bridge Upside Down just stood there.

Cal and Dibs and Bruce were dancing around. Dibs was holding up his catch. I couldn’t see what it was.

Caroline and Buster were out of sight.

Caroline and Buster were still out of sight.

I still couldn’t see Caroline and Buster.

Caroline and Buster must have stopped to look at something.

No sign of Caroline and Buster.

Caroline and Buster were still out of sight down there.

I heard voices. They were talking down there.

I left the edge of the top floor and sat in the shady part. I wanted to give them time to get to where they were going. I didn’t want to watch them any more. I wanted Fat Norman to reach Sam Phelps, I wanted Dibs and Cal and Bruce to run along the wharf to the funny steps and escape across the rocks, I wanted Caroline and Buster to reach home and get their bathing-suits—and I did not want to see them doing all this. Next time I looked, in five minutes maybe, I would want them to be gone,
everything done that they were now about to do.

I heard voices. I thought I heard footsteps.

Caroline and Buster were walking around down there.

They have five minutes, I thought, putting my hands over my ears and counting the seconds.

They have four minutes.

They have three minutes.

Two minutes.

One minute.

I took my hands from my ears, went to the edge and looked, I could see nobody anywhere. I could hear nobody.

For the last time, from the top of the silent ruins, I looked at the bay.

And now I saw Dibs and Cal and Bruce. They had come from beneath the wharf. They were running across the rocks. I would beat them home, I thought.

I ran to where the stairs had been. I skimmed across the footholds to the floor below. And, as I ran towards the stairs, I heard the sort of cry I used to hear on windy days when I was on the top floor. There was no wind today.

I stopped, not sure where the cry had come from. It could have come from the floor below.

It came again. Ooo-ooo-ooo!

Now I knew. It had come from the killers’ special room.

This was my last chance, I told myself as I walked slowly across the killing-floor to the special room. If I don’t look now, I thought as I took the first brick from the peephole, I’ll always wonder, I’ll always be sorry I didn’t. Now
I’ll know, I thought as I reached for the second brick.

I looked into the special room.

They were on the rug.

He was on top of her. They were moving together. Her arms were around him. Her legs were slowly waving, as if to me. His head hid her face, but I could see her hair spread on the rug, yellow against green.

Her legs were waving quickly now, as if to keep me looking, like don’t go don’t go. He paused, bent one foot on the rug and pushed forward, and her legs stopped waving while he did this, her feet hooked behind his knees as he pushed, her fingers scraped his back. Then they moved together again, and slowly her legs began waving again, and I saw the sweat glistening on the gold and brown and red and white of their bodies. While they still moved together, like one animal wriggling and sweating on the rug, he moved his head from her face and seemed to whisper into her ear, and while his head was turned I saw her face. Her eyes were closed, her tongue was out and going from one side of her mouth to the other. Her legs kicked, her fingers scratched, she groaned, she cried: ‘Aaahhh!’ He stopped the cry by pressing his mouth against hers, but the kicking and scratching went on, and his elbows churned up the rug as he pushed faster and faster. His head kept turning from side to side, following hers. Then her legs were kicking not so quickly, they were waving slowly, they came down slowly on the backs of his legs, her fingers were still, and he was no longer pushing. Now their bodies moved with the quickness of their breathing, but there was no kicking or scratching or pushing. Their breathing slowed, their
bodies were still, he staying on top of her, her fingers now smoothing his back, stopping suddenly as they reached the blood of the scratches. She turned her head from his and murmured something, and he murmured back. Presently he slid on to his side, facing her. His eyes were very close to hers, he must be looking through them, as I had once tried to do. She kept gazing at him, her eyes very dreamy, as she drew up her legs; then she turned and leaned across him to look at the scratches. She circled the scratches with one finger, murmuring to him as she did so. He put his arm around her and pulled her down beside him again. When their faces were close, his hand moved in circles across her back and sometimes further down, then to the front of her, to her breasts and further down. She seemed to tremble from her toes all the way up to her head, and he took his mouth from hers and laughed. He laughed into her face, then sat up. She laughed too. Then, when she looked at his body, seeming to study every inch of it, she saw something that made her put her hand to her mouth and open wide her eyes, pretending to be scared. He kissed her breasts, she pulled his hair. He pinched her, she squealed. She stood up, her back to me, and looked down at him. Then he stood up, and I could see all of him, I could see why she had pretended to be scared. I must go. I had seen too much. I had imagined all this, but not exactly this; I had always imagined her lying still and soft, not kicking, not scratching, not yelling. I did not want— Now she was kneeling and straightening the rug, now she was on her knees, now her elbows were on the rug too, she was crouching, waiting. Now he was on his knees behind her, moving
towards her, closing in behind her, his arms reaching out and going around her. She gave a little cry as, in this different way, they were together again. She gave a louder cry as I turned from the peep-hole. I seemed to hear the echo of it as I put back the bricks, it seemed to go on and on, filling every corner of the works as I ran to the stairs and down the stairs and out into the sunshine.

I ran. They’re no different, I thought. The squeals and groans are the same. Like the cries of dying animals. Hit by hammers, stabbed. How could she let such a huge thing go into her? No wonder she laughed at mine, no wonder she gave it a baby name. I was a baby. He was a man. I could do press-ups all day long, all week long, and never be like him.

I ran.

I ran down the side-path and on to the porch and into the kitchen, and past the table, towards the passage—

‘Harry!’ shouted Dad.

I ran into the passage.

‘Harry!’ he shouted again.

I stopped, did not turn. ‘Yes?’ I said.

‘Come here,’ he said.

I looked at him from the passage.

He was sitting at the table. His crutch was on the floor beside him. Both his hands were on the table; he had a piece of paper in one hand.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ he asked.

‘Nothing,’ I said.

‘Come here,’ he said. ‘Why are you looking so miserable? What have
you
got to be miserable about?’

I went to the table. I said: ‘I’m all right, Dad.’

‘Look as if you’ve seen a ghost,’ he said, frowning.

‘No. I didn’t see anything,’ I said. ‘Honestly I didn’t, Dad. I didn’t see them—’

‘See who?’ he asked.

‘Anybody,’ I said. Quick, who else had I seen? ‘Only Mr Norman,’ I said. ‘I saw Mr Norman going to the wharf—’

‘To hell with that fool,’ said Dad. ‘Serve him right if he’s shoved into the sea.’ He looked at me, then at the paper in his hand, then at the table. He seemed to forget me.

He’s the one who is miserable, I thought. Heck, I don’t care about Caroline, I care about Dad. Caroline is a is a is a bitch. Dad is good. I’d rather help Dad. I shouldn’t have wasted my time helping Caroline. I should have been helping Dad.