Beyond the Black Stump (33 page)

She said, “I’m sorry I laughed, Stan. It’s really nothing to laugh about, is it?”

“I’ll say it’s not,” he said.

“Is that what you wanted to tell me?” she enquired. “Just about Ruth’s boy—what’s his name? Tony?”

He nodded. “I guess you must think me a heel.”

She smiled. “I don’t think that, Stan. I’d like to meet him. Is he a nice kid?”

“He’s okay. Honest, Mollie, I dunno if he’s mine or not. But if he is, would that make any difference between us?”

“Of course it wouldn’t, Stan. It happened such a long time ago, and you were only sixteen.”

He breathed a deep sigh of relief. “Gee, it’s swell of you to take it that way, Mollie. I been lying awake nights over it, thinking that I should’ve told you way back, right at the beginning. But honest, I never thought about it. It all happened so long ago, ’n then she married Chuck.”

She pressed his hand. “Don’t think about it any more.”

They stood together in silence for a minute under the speckled shade of the elm tree, its leaves already turning to gold. “Tell me one thing,” she said presently. “The other girl, Mr. Fawsitt’s daughter. She got killed?”

He nodded.

“What did you say her name was?”

“Diana. Diana Fawsitt.”

“Was she killed at once?”

He hesitated; what morbid curiosity was actuating her? “I guess she was killed almost at once,” he said. “I think she died on the sidewalk before they could get the ambulance.”

She pursed her lips; so she hadn’t died at once. There was no sense in prying further into details, but her imagination could reconstruct the scene: the smashed cars, the children pulled from the wrecks by the horrified neighbours, the smashed body of the child Diana dying in a pool of blood on the grass verge between the paved sidewalk and the road, in the slanting light of the evening sun, under the flowering mountain ash trees, in the prim decency of Roosevelt Avenue. “What a terrible thing, Stan,” she said.

“Uh-huh,” he said. “Too bad it had to happen.”

She recoiled a little, but he was a foreigner and looked at things differently. She had to know a little more about
Diana, though. “Did the Fawsitts have other children?” she asked.

He wrinkled his brows. “Well now—I’ll just have to think. There was Sam in the Senior class the year I went to Hazel High … ’n then … ’n then there was another one. What was his name? I just forget what he was called, Mollie.”

“Another boy?”

“That’s right.”

“Was she the only daughter they had?”

He thought for a moment. “I’d say she probably was. I think there were the two boys and Diana.”

“It must have been a frightful thing for her parents.”

He nodded. “I know it. Getting smashed up in a couple of old jalopies.”

She recoiled from him again, but the beauty of the cars that had surrounded her in America had influenced her, too. In the six weeks she had come to understand the enormous part that the automobile played in his thinking, in the thinking of all Hazel. She could understand him, though she could not go along with him. She became very conscious that she was a stranger in this country, that she must be very careful what she said, or she would offend again.

“Is she buried here?” she asked.

He wrinkled his brows; why did she keep harping on this old tragedy? “I guess she must be.”

“You don’t know?” she asked a little sharply.

“I never gave it much thought, Mollie,” he said. “You think I’m kind of callous, or somethin’?”

“I think you might have put some flowers on her grave sometimes,” she said with sudden bitterness. “After all, you killed her.”

He stared at her in amazement and concern. “Say …” he exclaimed, “that’s not right. It was an accident! Folks get killed in auto accidents every day!”

She bit her lip, and was silent though the red-headed indignation was rising in her. If she was to marry him and make her life in Hazel she must learn his way of thought and not go flying off the handle because Americans in this small town didn’t think exactly as she did. She was silent for so long that he said, puzzled, “You mad at me, or somethin’?”

She raised her head. “I’m not mad at you.”

“What’s eating you, then? You better tell me, Mollie.”

She was still silent.

“Come on, honey,” he said gently.

“I don’t know how to put it, Stan,” she said slowly. “We’ve both got a lot to get accustomed to, about each other. We’ve been brought up pretty differently. You thought that I’d be worried about Ruth’s son. Well, I’m not a bit worried about that. After all, I’m not too legitimate myself; I’d be an awful hypocrite if I was bothered about Ruth. But I can’t get over this other girl, Diana Fawsitt.”

He wrinkled his brows, trying to understand. “You didn’t mean it, when you said I killed her? We were all having a game. Nobody meant to do it.”

She looked him in the eyes. “You’d better understand the way I see it, Stan,” she said. “So far as I can understand it, you were all sixteen. That’s very important, because a kid of sixteen can’t be held entirely responsible for what he does. I suppose that’s why you didn’t go to prison. In my country I believe you would have done. Apparently you got a lot of liquor, you and Chuck, and took these two girls out and got them full. I don’t mind about you seducing them; that’s probably the girls’ fault as much as yours, and anyway it’s not important. What is important to me is that you got into a drunken game and killed one of the girls. You and Chuck were driving, and you were responsible for her, and you killed her between you. And you don’t seem to care a thing about it.”

She paused, and he stood in silent consternation at her strange attitude. “I’m going to remember that you were sixteen,” she said. “I’m going to try and forget all the rest.”

He looked down, kicking the turf. “I think you’re being kinda rough on us, Mollie,” he said. “All accidents, they happen because somebody does somethin’ silly.”

“I know they do,” she said. “Don’t let’s talk of it again.”

“Okay.” He glanced at her. “And you don’t mind about Ruth’s boy? I never was just sure if he was mine or Chuck’s.”

She smiled. “I’ll tell you when I’ve had a look at him.”

They went back to the house, and he went to the works, and she went on with the household chores with Helen Laird. In the middle of the morning a boy of twelve strolled in.

“Hi-yah, Mrs. Laird,” he said. “Mom sent me over to get the diapers.”

Mollie took one look at him, and endeavoured unsuccessfully to control the laughter that was twitching her face at the ridiculous thought of Stan’s uncertainty. “Hi-yah,” she repeated. “You must be Tony.”

“That’s right,” he said. “You the Australian girl come back with Stan?”

“That’s right,” she said. “I’ve got the diapers right here.”

“Gee,” he said with interest, “you look just like an American. What are you laughing about?”

To cover up, she laughed out aloud, and said, “Did you think that I’d be like a coloured girl?”

She had embarrassed him with her laughter. He said resentfully, “I seen pictures of Australians and they were coloured. With spears. They throw things called boomerangs that come back.”

“That’s right,” she said. “But there are a lot more whites than coloured in Australia. Just like there are here.”

“I guess I didn’t know that. Mom said she’d be around this afternoon to visit with you, and say thanks for the diapers.”

“Tell her that’ll be lovely,” the girl said.

He turned to go, the sack of diapers flung sturdily over his shoulder. “’Bye now.”

She watched him go a little fondly; Stanton at that age must have been exactly like this boy. There was still laughter in her eyes at the absurdity of an uncertainty about his parentage when she turned back to the kitchen, and found Helen Laird looking at her apprehensively.

She had to say something. “Nice kid,” she said casually.

“Sure …” the older woman said a little faintly.

She looked so unhappy that Mollie took pity on her. “It’s all right, Mom,” she said. “Stan told me all about him.”

A wave of relief passed over Helen Laird. “He did?”

The girl laughed out loud. “I’m so sorry, Mom, but I can’t help laughing. Stan said he wasn’t sure if he was his or Chuck’s—and he meant it, too! As if you couldn’t tell by looking at him!”

The older woman said faintly, “He’s Chuck’s son, Mollie.”

The girl laughed again. “He can’t possibly be, Helen. Stan must have been exactly like him when he was that age!”

Helen Laird said dully, “You never saw Chuck, Mollie. I guess they were pretty much alike.” And then, to the girl’s consternation, she turned to the corner of the room and began to sob bitterly, her face hidden in her hands.

The laughter faded from the girl; though this was amusing to her it was a bitter tragedy for his mother. She crossed the room and put her arm around Helen’s shoulders. “It’s all right, Mom,” she said gently. “It’s not going to make any trouble, whoever his father was. Stan told me all about it, and I don’t mind a bit. Honestly, I don’t.” She pulled out a handkerchief tucked in the waist of her skirt and gave it to the older woman. “It’s quite all right. Come on and sit down, and I’ll get a cup of coffee.”

Helen Laird wiped her eyes. “He
is
Chuck’s son,” she said tearfully. “Ruthie always said so, and she must know.”

“It doesn’t matter who’s son he is, Mom,” the girl said. “He’s a nice kid and that’s all that matters. I’d like to get to know him better.”

Helen Laird stared at her in tearful perplexity. “You wouldn’t want him around about the place if he was Stan’s. But he’s not Stan’s, Mollie. Stan was never wild, like poor Chuck.”

The girl led the older woman to the table and switched on the electric coffee pot. “Sit down,” she said gently. “If he were Stan’s, it wouldn’t matter a bit to me, Mom. Stan was only sixteen, and he told me all about it.” She busied herself to get the cups and saucers, the carton of milk from the refrigerator, the sugar.

“I dunno how you young folks look at things,” the old woman muttered. “You surely couldn’t bear to have him round the place if he was Stan’s. Or if you could, what would your folks say? But he’s not Stan’s, Mollie. I’m quite sure he’s not. Cross my heart.”

The coffee pot began to sing and the girl switched it off, and brought it to the table. She poured out the cups of coffee. “Don’t worry any more, Mom,” she said gently. “I suppose it might matter with some people, but not with me. We’re quite used to this at home. We live a long way out in the bush, you know, on Laragh Station, and things happen there that wouldn’t happen here. I’ve got a whole family of half-caste half-brothers and half-sisters living with us on the property, that we don’t talk about too much. Honestly, this doesn’t mean a thing to me.” She paused.
“And it wouldn’t mean a thing to Dad and Ma, either. They’d just laugh.”

Helen Laird stared at her incredulously. “What did you say, about half-caste brothers?”

“I’ve got three of them,” the girl said, “and two sisters—yellow girls. There weren’t any white women in the district when Dad and Uncle Tom first went to Laragh after the First War, and they lived with the gins—the black women, you know. Of course, they gave that up when mother came along.” She sipped her coffee. “I suppose we’re really a lot worse than you are here,” she said. “But honestly, you needn’t worry about this any more, Mom. Just forget about it.”

The other woman stared at her in perplexity. “But Stan wrote us about your brothers and sisters. He said one was an accountant down in Perth, and one getting to be a famous surgeon in England, and another a girl, doing Oriental languages, or somethin’.”

Mollie laughed. “That’s quite true, Mom,” she said. “But I’ve got a lot of others we don’t talk about so much. I suppose there’s not much else to do up in the Lunatic, except breed children.”

Helen Laird said, “But, Mollie—let me get this straight. You don’t really mean you’ve got coloured people in your family?”

Aware for the first time of a pitfall opening before her, Mollie said, “Dad and Ma are white, of course, and I’m pure white. But I’ve got half-brothers and sisters living on the property, and they’re coloured.”

“You mean, real coloured, like the coloured people here?”

“That’s right.”

There was a long pause. Then Helen Laird said quietly, “Stan never told us that.”

“I think he might have done,” the girl said. “But does it make any difference?”

Helen Laird passed her hand across her eyebrows wearily. “I dunno, dear. It’s all been so sudden, first the one and then the other. Guess a boy’s folks kind of like to know before he marries into a coloured family.”

The girl kept her temper with an effort. “We don’t call ourselves a coloured family,” she said. “Not that I’d mind very much if we did. Perhaps you ought to have a talk with
Stan, Helen. He’d be able to explain things better than I can, because he’d see them more the way you do.”

“Maybe that’s right, dear,” said his mother heavily. “I guess I’ll have to have a talk with Stan.”

The girl went up to her bedroom, depressed. Everything today was going wrong, in every kind of way. First Stanton, with his unconcern over Diana Fawsitt’s death which had so shocked her, and now his mother’s shocked reaction to the news of the Countess and her family. Having grown up with them from childhood, Mollie had accepted her half-brothers and sisters as a part of Laragh; infinitely kind and loving guardians in her childhood, people to whom she was deeply attached, and yet who were quite different to herself. Could she ever make the people of this town, the generous, affectionate people who were her hosts—could she ever make them understand about the Countess? And what about the Judge? If she lived here, would he hang permanently above her head like the Sword of Damocles? Or must she disown him, too?

She got out the letter from David Cope for comfort, and read the well known words again. When she came to the end, the part where David had said that her father was going to find him a nice yellow girl or a good-looking gin, she wondered how that joke would appeal to Helen Laird.

The atmosphere of the delightful little town of Hazel wrapped her round, pretty and civilised and stifling. For the first time since leaving home she was acutely homesick for her own country.