Black Diamonds (36 page)

 

FRANCINE

What have you done for Lent this year, Francine? Well, God, as you're probably aware, my husband and I have been writing The Proposal, or rather I've written it. Even if he could write, or muster a basic grasp of formal grammar, no one should be made to decipher Daniel's scribble. Proposal is the reason why we're being careful with money, and, should Proposal be successful, we might have to be careful for many years to come. So, in a roundabout way, I've come half good with one of my fanciful promises,
Deum Patrem omnipotentem:
we're not going to sell our share and give the money to the miners, we're going to try to buy the whole company and sell back shares to them. Turn the Wattle into a kind of workers' collective run on socialist principles, in a capitalist economy, at the end of the world. You've got to chortle at the ambitiousness, but after these weeks of nutting it out together, it appears that it is actually possible.

So long as we can find a temporary replacement partner who is willing to have a go at some experimental philanthropy, since no bank would be able to give us what we need. According to my legal angels, any respectable banker would run a mile as soon as we presented the plan: for small loans for the miners, guaranteed by Daniel and I and our lion's share; and interest low enough that we can cover it ourselves, while the miners pay their bits of principal in instalments. Without that, it won't work: it's not feasible for us to buy it outright, at a price Drummond won't be able to refuse, and Daniel doesn't want anyone to have to put their savings into it, or anyone who doesn't have savings to miss out.

‘That's revolutionary,' I said to him when he first told me about the idea; and he said: ‘No. It's anti-revolutionary. Commonsense, really.' Uncommonsense,
really.
I asked him if he'd discussed it with Doctor Adinov, and he looked at me askance. ‘No. Why would I do that? He's a surgeon.' And so I asked: ‘Well, what was the
fifty-two days to think about it
about, then?' He said: ‘Oh that. He saw the paintings, at Dunc's father's; he's that collector — how's that, ay. Wants me to paint something for him.'
Oh really?
Still attempting to digest this confounding explanation; they say Sydney is a small world, but
really?
And I was simultaneously appalled that Mr Duncan had allowed that to happen, and intrigued, most of all by Daniel's nonchalance. I asked: ‘Well, are you going to?' And he said: ‘I don't know. Maybe. Probably.' Don't you just want to smack it out of him sometimes, Lord?

And don't you sometimes simply delight in him? If you exist, treat yourself and look at him now, sitting at the kitchen table, being
useful
: he's got Danny wedged between himself and the edge of the table and he's shovelling porridge into him, while I make second course of breakfast for him and the boys. At the same time, he's talking about the need to insure the company and the workers against stoppages and price fluctuations without going broke. He could have been the author of
Bituminous Coal
, except for the interjections: to Danny: ‘Don't wriggle'; to Charlie: ‘Show us your teeth — have you cleaned them even once this week?'; to Harry, with glint: ‘Do that lace up. Or you'll trip and break something.' Then finally: ‘Go on, get off then, you'll be late for school. See if you can't come home with more sense.' It's nearly five miles from here to school, and he makes Harry and Charlie walk,
does them good
, and they pick up their sisters on the way.

Boys gone, I'm washing up, and Daniel's said something about wages and dargs. I'm nodding off on my feet again. What's a darg? Oh yes, quota. Quota? I'm finding it harder and harder to concentrate with every day. Not that he's boring; well, to be truthful, it is fairly dull stuff, but it's dull stuff I should be abreast of if we're going to go into this business on our own. And he's got to talk about it, whether Proposal succeeds or not, to be certain he knows exactly what he's doing; what
we're
doing, Francy. Most words he's ever uttered and they're all about coal, coal, coal. Coal? A giggle escapes. He'd get more sense in return if he went through this with Evan, but he doesn't want to go to him until we've dotted every i and crossed every t. Tea. That's what I need, another cup of tea.

He says: ‘France, why don't you go and have a lie-down.'

I look at him. Senses smack me. I look at Danny, who's heading straight for the stove; estimate that it takes his father a good two seconds to get up from his seat. And I shake my head.

‘Tuesday,' I tell him, ‘as soon as we get to the hotel.'

In Sydney, where Doctor Adinov will give Achilles his right arm back on Wednesday, and where Mr Edward Duncan will be approached with Proposal on Thursday. He's the only unconscionably wealthy person we know, or at least I know, a little, who might at least have a look at it, or might know someone who'd be interested in helping us; also according to angels Stanley and Bragg he's the fifth richest Sydney landholder on the roll, not including dubious activities in gaming and ‘entertainment', and I personally think he owes Daniel some kind of a favour for underhanded art show. Not that he knows yet that this is the purpose behind our visit: I've told him we'd like to pop in for morning tea on our way through, and he sent back a note:
That will be lovely.
God, if you do exist, you'll make Mr Duncan say yes to experimental philanthropy, you'll make elbow a perfect hinge when it's got its meat back, and you'll make Daniel paint something for Doctor Adinov that'll prove his talent to both of them, to Daniel most of all. There's a dare for you. But if you can stop the war this afternoon, I might be impressed. And if Daniel doesn't snore tonight, I'll go to Mass on Sunday.

Careful what you dare, facetiously or otherwise. No snoring. Instead Daniel wakes me up with mumbles, then yells out something in German with ‘
Achtung! Achtung!
', then: ‘Don't shoot. For Christ's sake. I've got you, I've got you. Just shut up.'

He grabs at the bottom sheet and wakes up with a shudder that shakes the bed; looks across at me through the dark and says: ‘What?' And he sounds frightened; I've never heard that in him before.

I say, calm as I can muster: ‘It's all right. You were dreaming.'

‘Did I say anything?'

‘No. Just mumbles.' He's so desperate for me not to know, I want to say,
Tell me and I'll make it go away.

But then he says: ‘I'm sorry.'

You're sorry?
‘Don't be.'

Last time I ever have words with God, facetiously or otherwise.

 

DANIEL

Jumpy kids get hot milk before bed, and at least I can fix that for myself. Seems to do the job; I haven't had another bad dream. Very jumpy this morning, though, and it's no dream: France trips up the step getting on the train and I nearly follow her, trying to catch her. I'd rather she wasn't coming with me, but someone's got to
look after me
, and she's not going to get any rest at home without me anyway, since even with Mum's help Danny wouldn't leave her alone. Besides, the proposal we've put together is just as much hers as mine, every question she's asked making my answers clearer, and if I ever thought I was quick with figures, France can calculate interest in her head, then chew the end of her pencil for a bit and tell me what tonnage and what price we'll need to keep up to pay for it. I want her to hand it over to Dunc's father with me. Or to be more honest, I wouldn't do it without her: I don't want to meet this bloke on my own. Jesus, we must be a sight as we stumble into the carriage. The guard brings our bag on for us and makes sure we're safely seated, and I can tell you if I had a knife I'd cut my way out of this bloody straightjacket right here. That'll be Adinov's privilege, though, tomorrow at ten o'clock; don't be late.

France says to me now: ‘Stop scowling — you're getting a big wrinkle right between your eyebrows.'

She's hilarious, looking at me as if this wrinkle is a serious concern. Does the trick; I've stopped
scowling
, and she says: ‘That's better. Look like that and you'll frighten the other passengers.'

So I look out the window as the train starts heading up, steadying myself; my heart's still pounding from seeing her trip. Then it pounds some more with the thought of freedom tomorrow; try not to get too excited about that. But I fail: I am excited. After calculating that my arm has been in some arrangement of cement for nine out of the last eighteen months and that I've spent nearly a year out of the last nearly four years in some state of useless, I am fairly desperate never to be useless again. But what if … don't think about it.

Not going to think about Mr Edward Duncan, either, till we're there in front of him; that'll only lead to more scowling. Not going to think about what it'll mean if he says yes to the proposal. What it'll mean if Evan baulks. And there is a chance he might: it's one thing to fist-thump about the issues, and another when you're going to be asked to put your money where your mouth is. Money you don't really have. Even if France and I are the ones taking the main risk; even if the miners' outlay will be offset by their profit share over the three years, maximum, it'll take them to own their stakes. Even if it means that company profit can start being spent on the things we really need and that they'll have a say in what those things will be. It's still a matter of asking over a hundred workers to put their trust in two people who don't exactly have a reputation in business. Even if the charter of checks and balances France has drawn up is as long as the Constitution. I won't blame them if they choose known security over promising unknown, or if they say piss off how far on yourself are you asking us for money. But I realise it will cut if they don't go for it. Don't get that far ahead of yourself. Don't think about Drummond saying no to our offer either: he couldn't possibly say no. If everyone else says yes and he says no, I will have to have him killed. Not really, but I don't think I've ever put so much plain hard thought into anything and come up with what looks like the right conclusion from every angle.

France tugs at my sleeve. ‘Daniel, what's that terrible racket?'

‘I don't know.' But she's having a go. ‘You tell me.'

‘Them wheels turning,' she pokes me in the hip. ‘Stop it.'

‘Can't.'

‘Can — look at the scenery.'

A million gum trees. Fascinating. I'd rather look at her, but looking at her and her too-big-with-twins belly only gets me wound up again.

What else is there to think about? Painting: there's five minutes'worth. I know what I want to paint as soon as I can: her. Don't think about painting for Adinov; that's part of what that dream was about, I'm sure.
Nicht Schieβien:
don't shoot; don't want to go there again. Maybe I'll give him a picture of Francine, as a nod at the loss of his grandfather's ceiling. I think he'll be expecting something more than that. Don't think I can give it to him, but something in me wants to, or feels obliged to.

Look at the scenery: more gum trees. And we're only at Mount Vic.

Have a chat, play a game; I say: ‘France, I spy. Something beginning with G.'

No answer: she's kipping again. Holding my arm, head against my shoulder: she's the sweetest thing ever made. Not at her most entertaining at the minute, though.

Think about how entertaining she is when she's awake, telling me yesterday that Billy the Troll's off to London again and she's thinking of sending a telegram to the war conference suggesting that the last wool clip Blighty bought from us be used for shell casings:
soft, durable and reusable, and, being Australian, Fritz'll quake at the mere thought of them, force him into a truce.
It's the pinch of spite behind her funnies that makes me laugh — she hates Hughes more than I do. To me, now, he's just the official Two- Inch Cock; but to her, if he stepped onto this train today, I think she'd wake up quickly and throw more than an ice cream at him. She has a point, though: the world must be going broke. I can see those cheery starving Londoners, and that was more than a year ago. Can't be so cheery now. The French must've disappeared altogether. But if you believe Hughes you'd think the AIF was about to win the war single-handedly, if only we'd let him send more idiots. He sings God Save the King and Advance Australia Fair out of either side of his mouth drinking a glass of water. That's politics, isn't it. Doesn't bear thinking about at all.

Look across the carriage instead: bloke with his head in a newspaper; front page saying
ABOUT TIME
, referring to America, lending their Associated Power to the war against evil these days. Not news, just more Aussie is Best propaganda, and old news. Doubtful America will ever live down coming to the picnic so late. Not here anyway, where the idea of an independent country is foreign. America: the big choker, the big DT, with a pacifist for a president. And Russia — Jesus — they will definitely never live down abandoning the Eastern Front, much less going Red. Shame on the lot of them. Or shame on us? Does anyone really give a shit? Probably not. Not here, where France would say:
How much thinking could you realistically expect from a nation whose best- selling book of the year is a ditty about a loveable larrikin and his bonzer tart Doreen?
Look out the window again at the million gum trees. Too much sunshine for thinking, maybe. Spend more time in argument over whether there should be six or eight balls an over in cricket: I'm with Blighty's rules there: six is definitely enough. No argument at all on the blinding fact that the reason for the whole disaster is so that Blighty can stay top capitalist monster. And maybe he will, with a million or so fit, un-starved American idiots helping. Bully for him. But it's never going to end, is it. Not really.

Well, that's lifted my mood. Good job, Daniel. Very frightening. Just as well France kips on all the way to Sydney so she can't see my wrinkle.

Very big lift, very good job at around half-past ten the next day. My arm looks in urgent need of a good feed, but it goes all the way straight, and I can nearly touch my shoulder with my fingers, with help for the moment. Adinov looks pleased with himself. Let him; he's a genius. Even Stratho's impressed.

Adinov actually says: ‘I told you so.'

Yep.

I'm still looking at the skinny thing on the table, and I get that feeling like it's not mine, same as I still get sometimes about my legs when I'm walking. He's bandaging round the length of it, slinging it up. ‘It stays bound and supported for a fortnight. You are not to lift any heavy weights for at least six months. And you'll do the exercises every day, yes?'

Just try to stop me.

Then he says: ‘I'll be visiting Bathurst in June. I'll inspect my painting on my way through then, yes?'

Yep. ‘I suppose so.' And I think I might even have an idea now for what I'll paint for him.

Then, saying farewell, he grabs my face and kisses me on both cheeks. Very European. I know he likes me, but I think he likes my arm more. Surgeons are strange people, God bless them, and Adinov is probably at the top of the scale there.

I float, practically, with the weight gone. I can breathe without knowing I'm doing it. I can give France a cuddle — here she is, waiting — and touch her belly with both hands and not care who's looking.

We catch the tram back to the hotel and France has a lie-down. She's tired again. She's asleep in five minutes; still got her shoes on. I take her shoes off and lie down with her, but I don't sleep. I'm holding her: my most precious thing.

I'm remembering the night Dunc threatened to shoot me. He didn't of course, wouldn't have. But he decked me. Just about separated my jaw from my face. He might have been queer but there was nothing girlie in that connection. We'd just started opening up some shallow sap tunnels ahead of the advance, at night, so Fritz couldn't see what we were up to. Sure. It was quiet for a moment, and I could hear a bloke yelling out; no, just yelling. Disadvantage of being tall, apart from having to duck so much so as not to get my head blown off, is that I only had to look up and I could see him, sitting there, about fifty yards away. Orders were not to help the wounded across no-man's-land at that time. I couldn't keep to that, even though Dunc would have had every military right to shoot me for it. I'd just shovelled through one corpse too many; you could hear metal scrape bone. You don't get used to that. Seeing a man about to make himself another corpse made me plain insubordinate. Dunc grabbed me by the leg, ‘Keep going and I will shoot you,' and I kicked him away as I went up: ‘Fuck off.' I wasn't a complete idiot about it: I crawled the whole way; grabbed the bloke, got him down, got him to shut up; got him to crawl the whole way back, with half his foot shot off. Didn't take that long, considering.

Dunc waited till dawn, when we'd finished and were heading back. He dismissed everyone at the second trench line, except me: ‘Ackerman. You stay where you are.' He waited some more, looking at me, beyond anger. I was looking back at him, beyond everything. Then he grabbed me, both hands nearly ripping my collar off. He said: ‘You will not do that again.' I was still jumpy enough that I couldn't hear who was talking to me, and I pushed him off. Too quick for me to see it coming, he laid me flat out then, and said: ‘I mean it.' And he walked off. I was still picking myself up off the ground when Stratho came back to stickybeak; laughing his head off.

That's what I'm remembering as we get off the tram at Edgecliff. The things I'll never tell France about. No one. Even I can't believe I did that. And that was only the first time I went AWL for a tick, in my own special way. Dunc would bail me up after that, but he never hit me again; didn't bother. Instead, he'd fiddle a few facts to give reasonable explanation for why I so often wasn't where I was supposed to have been: covering my arse and, apparently, trying to promote me away from myself. He didn't succeed in getting me packed off for officer training school, doubt he ever would have, but he got me decorated, Christ knows how. The citation there is true, sort of: I did lie down behind a Lewis gun for a spell as Fritz was pounding the advance of reinforcements behind me. What's not noted is that I didn't fire a round, couldn't possibly have, not least of all because I failed at the Just In Case study of practically every piece of machinery more complicated than a rifle, and Fritz must have taken pity on me for that because he didn't take a single shot at me either. What's not noted is the reason I was there at all: I was the last to clear out of the sap, or supposed to have, and I heard the gunner up top get hit; went back to have a look and he was very
kaput
, no sign of his second either, just the pile of magazines next to him. He asked me to write a letter for his mother, and we got a few lines in before he couldn't speak. So I lay there with him while he died; then I just lay there with my finger round the trigger, looking at Fritz, thinking about giving it a burl and waiting for the bullet that didn't come, till a bloke wormed up behind me and said: ‘You can piss off now, mate.' Why did Dunc see that I got a bells and whistles souvenir for that one? I don't know. Maybe it was love after all, but more probably it was because you don't get a medal for not firing at the enemy or for being inclined to duck off from the job, and the
perversity
of my
conspicuous gallantry and devotion to duty
amused him. His parting sentiments certainly amused me, exactly when I thought I'd lost my sense of humour forever.

Why did I do any of it? As Frank Connolly said:
does strange things to people.
But don't think I wasn't sticking with rule number one: I was that scared the whole time that I couldn't sleep, even on the few days' break Dunc made me take in the middle of it. I had to pass out from lack of sleep, and I did not need coffee to look lively again five minutes later. I just couldn't help it, and I know now that's the main reason I wanted to get locked up. That was the only way I wasn't going to do it again. I know I'm not alone in my behaviour, but it's not the sort of thing you natter about, is it, because you can't explain it. Maybe I thought I was buying my own life by it, thieving the only thing I could; or maybe that's just the way the anger came out in me in that circumstance, caught between two hatreds: them and us. Either way, any way, I don't understand it, and France shouldn't ever have to try to. What would I say to her? For three long and very eventful weeks in hell I did my best to make myself a target? It's better forgotten, and for the most part I can manage that. The only reason I'm thinking about it now is obvious: Dunc would write whole novels home to his father, and, take a wild stab, he'd have included one or two details about me.