The Beloved (8 page)

One afternoon we came home to find Mama washing up a pile of dirty dishes. ‘That wretched Willie,' she said. ‘He hasn't put in an appearance all day.'

When Dad came home, he dropped his bag on the table and took Mama in his arms.

‘I'm glad you're home, Eddie,' she said.

‘I'm glad you're glad, Bean.' He landed a smacking kiss on her mouth. ‘Did you miss me?'

‘I don't mean that. It's Willie. I've been backwards and forwards to the boi-haus all day knocking and calling but there's been no answer. Either he's sick or he's not there. Would you go and check?'

Dad dropped his arms. ‘Okay.'

A few minutes later he came back. ‘I can't see much; the light bulbs are smashed. But he seems to have gone pinis. Left a bad smell. It's too dark to see what it is. I'll deal with it in the morning.'

Mama stuck her hands on her hips. ‘Gone? How come . . .
gone
?'

Dad shrugged. ‘He wouldn't be the first one to shoot through. We'll have to find someone else, em tasol.'

‘That's all?' said Mama. ‘Find another haus-boi just like that?' She snapped her fingers.

‘Someone'll turn up. I'll put the word out. Anyway, you weren't happy with Willie.'

‘He was better than nobody.'

Mr and Mrs Davies arrived the next morning to take Mama skin-diving.

‘I can't go,' she said. ‘Willie's disappeared and I'm it for housework.'

‘Our haus-boi's sister's looking for work,' said Mrs Davies. ‘She arrived from Milne Bay last week and has been helping her brother. She's very good; so is her English.'

‘A woman would be nice,' said Mama.

‘I'll send her over now,' said Mrs Davies.

Mama went down to clean out the boi-haus and Dad started on the breakfast dishes. ‘Grab a tea towel, CP, if you can remember what it looks like. Tim, have a go at the beds, will you? Let's hope the meri gets here quick.'

We'd nearly finished the dishes when a weird sound came from the backyard. Dad dropped the dishmop. ‘Is that your mother?' He hurried down the stairs. From the verandah I saw Mama leaning on the side of the boi-haus throwing up into the dirt. Dad held her around her middle while she sicked up again. Tim ran down the stairs.

Mama waved at him. ‘No, Tim. No. Stay away.'

He stopped for a moment, then circled around her and went into the boi-haus.

‘For God's sake,' Mama gasped. ‘Stop him, Ed. Go after him!'

Dad shot into the boi-haus, Mama tottering along behind. For a moment nothing happened, then I heard a howl, high and thin, that lifted the hair on my neck. Again it came, like wind in the wires. Dad staggered from the boi-haus with Timmy dangling in his arms. He took him upstairs to his bedroom.

‘You are not to go outside,' Mama told me.

‘Why?'

‘Later, Bertie. Right now I need a shower.'

I looked at the dark mouth of the boi-haus. What was in there?

As I stared, I heard someone humming, and a lady appeared around the side of our house. She had a cloud of frizzy hair and her bosom and tummy met in a soft mound under a pink and yellow dress. She looked up, saw me and smiled, and despite the creepiness of the boi-haus, I smiled back.

She came up the stairs. ‘I'm not allowed outside,' I said. ‘There's something bad in the boi-haus. It made my mama sick and my brother cry.'

The meri's smile faded. She dropped her bilum bag on the step and went back down to the boi-haus. She was inside a long time and when she came out she was holding a hessian sack. ‘Where taubada?' she said.

I went for Dad. ‘The new meri's here. She wants to see you.'

Mama and Dad looked at each other. Then Dad went downstairs to talk to the meri. I couldn't hear what they were saying but next thing Dad went under the house for a shovel. He and the meri disappeared behind the boi-haus and moments later I heard the shovel crunch into the dry earth.

Behind me, in his bedroom, I heard Timmy cry.

Mama, her hair still damp from the shower, sat at the kitchen table and took our new meri's hand. ‘Thank you, Josie.'

‘Come here, CP,' said Dad. He pulled me into the crook of his arm and dropped his forehead on mine. ‘I'm afraid I've bad news. Snifter's been found and I'm sorry to tell you, but he's dead.'

My middle seemed to shrink. ‘What happened?'

He stroked my hair. Mama stared at her feet. Josie looked around, her eyes taking in the cobwebs in the corner and the newspapers on the floor.

‘What happened, Dad?'

‘He . . . Willie . . .'

Josie patted my cheek with a soft hand. ‘Dog make plenty good kai-kai, piccaninny. Em tasol. No more dog. All gone.'

Kai-kai? . . . Food?

Snifter was
food
?

‘Next time better you get native dog,' she said. ‘Too tough, no good to eat.'

Snifter, our little dog, our beautiful Snifter. Upside down in a cooking pot, legs sticking up, eyes glazed. Snifter murdered.
Eaten
. Snifter would have trusted Willie, followed him, his tail sticking up, nose scouring the ground. How could Willie do that to our dog? To
us
? I wrenched away from Dad. Mama grabbed me.

‘I'm so sorry, Bertie.'

‘No, Mama, no!'

‘He'll be happy now. In heaven with all his doggy friends.'

‘How could Willie do that?'

‘I don't know, sugar. It's a different world. People do things we don't understand.'

‘I
hate
him.'

‘So do I, right now.'

‘Forever.'

‘No, not forever. We can't be so busy hating people there's no time for anything else.'

‘I'm going to hate him for ever and ever.'

‘I wouldn't recommend it.'

Tim lay on his bed, facing the wall. His colours were terrible, worse than I'd ever seen. I sat on his bed and rubbed his back like Mama did when we were sick, but it didn't work. When Mama made him get up for dinner he walked around hunched over like an old man. He didn't go to school the next day, and the day after – when he had to – he didn't speak to anyone. I had to do something.

‘Should we get him another dog?' I asked Mama.

‘Not now, Bertie. It's Snifter he's missing.'

‘What about the barnyard set?' Tim had seen a barnyard set in Steamies, with fences and gates and pretend grass, barns, horses and cows.

‘It's very expensive.'

‘But it might help. How much does it cost?'

She shrugged.

‘You can have my pocket money.'

‘That's sweet, Bertie, but it's worth more than a year of your pocket money.'

I went to my room and emptied my piggybank. Two shillings and ninepence. I definitely needed more and there was only one way to get it. Sell something. Adults got money by selling things. Why couldn't I? I had snakes and ladders, ludo, plastic pop beads, a kewpie doll. I took them all, plus the money, to Mama. ‘Sell these.'

Her eyes widened. ‘Oh, that's lovely, Bertie. But it still wouldn't be enough.'

I went back to my room and looked around. It had to be the best. Moose and Molly and my blackboard. I hated the thought of losing Moose and Molly but if that's what it took to make Tim feel better, I had to let them go.

‘You'd sell Moose and Molly?' Mama said.

‘Yes.'

She sighed.

Still
not enough? There was only one thing left: Aunt Tempe's beautiful paint set. I brought it to Mama.

‘You're really serious,' she said. ‘Well, I guess it's enough. Look, I don't think we'd get much for Moose and Molly so you keep them but the rest . . . if you're sure?'

‘I'm sure.'

The next night Dad came home with the barnyard set.

‘Did you have to sell everything?' I asked him.

‘I'm afraid so, CP. Oh, except for this.' He rummaged in his Gladstone bag and brought out the paint box. ‘Nobody wanted it. But the rest of your things brought exactly the right amount for Tim's present. Lucky, huh?'

I took the barnyard set to Tim. ‘Now will you feel better?'

Tears gathered in his eyes. He nodded and a flash of pink appeared on his chest, but then the cold grey swallowed it again.

The next morning, early, Dad roused Tim from bed and took him downstairs. A few minutes later, I heard gunshots –
Crack! Crack! Crack!
one after another. I grabbed my sticks and went to see. Dad held Tim while he pumped bullets into a new Tom Piper. He wasn't hunched over any more but standing up straight.

‘Me!' I shouted. ‘Me too.'

Dad let Tim have six more shots, then he put the gun in my hands and held me. ‘Go on then. Give it your best.'

I squeezed the trigger. The gun thumped in my hand and my ears nearly fell off.
Bang! Bang!
In the neck.
Bang!
His ear. I giggled.
Bang
! His—

‘
Edric!'

The gun went off. I missed.

‘How
could
you?' Mama screeched. ‘Our children! A gun, for God's sake. Put the damn thing away and never let me see you doing that again.'

Tim and I looked at each other. His mouth didn't move but he was smiling. Willie was dead.

Dead, dead,
dead
.

Chapter Eight

Mama perched on the edge of Dad's big wooden desk, set on the coolest side of the verandah, her long legs bare beneath a red silk brunch coat. ‘I'm redundant,' she said. ‘Josie does everything. I need to find a job.'

Dad put down his newspaper and smiled. If his eyes had been arms she'd have been pressed against his heart. ‘I can think of something.'

‘Don't.'

‘Why not? You look good enough to eat.'

She shrugged.

His smile faded.

‘Sorry. I'm bored. But there's a vacancy for a reporter on the
South Pacific Post
and I'd like to apply.'

‘Work?'

‘Yes, work. I need to use my brain and the money would come in handy. I want a trip back to Canada; I haven't seen my family in ten years. And there's the kids' education.'

Dad scowled. Mama wanted Tim and me to go to boarding schools in Australia when we finished grade seven but Dad wanted us to stay in Moresby. ‘Why have kids just to pack them off?'

‘Because a good education is the most valuable thing we can give them and I want them to have the best.'

‘Okay, okay. I'll have money for their expensive ruddy educations by the time you need it, and a trip to Canada. You don't have to work.'

‘I want to.'

And she did. Soon she was travelling all over the country for stories and pictures.

Dad grumbled when she stayed away overnight. ‘Can't you work nine to five? The kids need you.'

‘They have Josie.'

‘She's not their mother.'

‘She's the next best thing.'

It was true. I loved Josie and I trusted her because she was the only person I'd met whose colours matched their words. Josie told the truth and too bad if you didn't like it.

‘What's wrong you foot, Bertie? Truck run 'im over?'

‘No.'

‘Burn 'im?'

‘No.'

‘Foot sick?'

‘Yes.'

‘Better you cut 'im off. Get new foot.' She giggled.

‘You're just like Monica.'

But Josie was nothing like Monica. She was my best friend. My only friend.

Until Stefi.

By early November Christmas had arrived at Steamies. Decorations, tinned puddings, frozen turkeys, toys, gifts, pictures of stockings hung on mantelpieces in front of crackling fires.

Mama was looking for work clothes and I'd just seen a pair of black patent-leather court shoes.

‘Mama, look at the beautiful shoes. Can I have them,
please
?'

‘You can't wear ordinary shoes, Bertie. I'm sorry.'

‘When can I, Mama? When can I?' I pulled myself up tall. I now had a cane instead of sticks and next stop was
nothing
.

‘A long time, sugar. But you can wear shorts – how about we get you a pair?'

‘No.' Never. I'd never expose my ugly withered leg in shorts.

‘Oh, Bertie. I know how difficult this is for you. Believe me, if I could wish your leg back to normal, I would. If I could dress you in trousers and gumboots to hide your foot I would. I don't enjoy putting you on show but we live in the tropics and you can't hide your leg beneath long dresses. At least in shorts you'd be cool
and
look more like other children.'

I trawled through the dresses looking for plain, long smocks without belts. There weren't any. I left Mama at the cosmetics counter, dabbing lipsticks on the back of her hand, and wandered among counters piled with fans, toasters, bicycles, tools and rolls of material. At the stationery counter I found something that made me forget about the shoes: a three-tiered box of seventy-two perfect colouring pencils. Aqua, pink, gold, indigo, scarlet – beautiful colours.

‘Aren't they pretty?' A saleslady pushed some paper towards me. ‘It's a sample box, you can try some if you like.'

I chose a dark pink pencil and drew a small circle. It felt smooth and creamy on the paper and the colour was like strawberries. Aqua next, ovals coming from the circle like petals on a flower. Gold, purple – two at a time. Blue flowers with lemon centres, red bees with purple stripes. Pictures everywhere.

‘Boring, boring, borrrr-ing!'

I knew that voice; it belonged to Stefi, the new girl at school. She was bouncing against the hosiery counter, muttering while her mother talked to a saleslady. A frail-looking kid with a heart-shaped face and wispy ginger hair, Stefi somehow managed to looked sad and hopeful at the same time. Her parents came from Hungary. We laughed when she said that; we thought she said
Hungry
. Mrs Potts pulled out an atlas and explained that Hungary was a country in Europe. We had quite a few kids from Europe. One reckoned she was an exiled Austrian princess and that she and her mother had escaped Vienna when her father became a Nazi during the German occupation. We thought she looked more like a gypsy than a princess.

‘Stefi!' I called.

She looked up and grinned. There was a hole in her mouth where a tooth had fallen out. ‘Hello, Bertie Lightfoot!'

I waited for her to say something smarty-pants about my name but she didn't.

‘So this is where you are.' Mama arrived with a pile of boxes.

Stefi scooted over. ‘Hello. Are you Bertie's mother?'

‘Yes, I am.'

‘I'm Stefi Breuer.'

Mama smiled. ‘Nice to meet you, Stefi.'

‘You too,' said Stefi, but she was looking at my boot. ‘Polio, was it? Polio's a virus. A bug too small for the human eye to see. Without a microscope, that is, and a much bigger microscope than mine.'

‘You have a microscope?'

‘Yes. Want to come to my house and see it?'

See it? At her place? ‘Yes!'

‘Mother!' Stefi shouted. ‘That's my mother,' she said to Mama, pointing. ‘She's buying stockings.'

Mama's eyes widened. ‘Stockings?'

Stefi's mother looked up. ‘What's wrong?'

‘Sorry,' Mama said. ‘Nothing.'

‘Nothing?'

‘It's a little . . . unusual, stockings in this climate.'

Mrs Breuer pulled a pound note from her purse. A tiny muscle beat in her jaw. Mama went over and held out her hand. ‘I'm Lily May Lightfoot.'

The shopkeeper counted out the change. Mrs Breuer studied the coins in her hand, counted them again and tipped them slowly into her purse. Mama lowered her arm. Mrs Breuer put the purse and the parcel carefully into her woven Buka basket, then suddenly she smiled and held out her hand. ‘I'm Magda Breuer.'

Over the small end of her microscope, Stefi and I became friends. We examined the amazing detail of leaves, ants and bugs. There was a whole other life going on under the microscope, right beneath your nose. I liked Stefi. You never knew what she was going to do or say next and she never stopped asking questions. Why did zebras have stripes? Why didn't snakes have legs? Why did oil – which felt heavier than water – float on top when you mixed them? She was always inventing things: a message machine made from a matchbox hung on a cotton reel that flew across the yard on a string. Telephones made from holes punched in Craven A tins and threaded with wire so we could talk to each other in different rooms.

Mama liked Stefi too. ‘She's the brightest kid I've ever met. Hopefully, her brains will rub off on you.'

The Breuers lived in Boroko, not far from school, in a big house full of bright cushions and cane furniture. Their dunny was out the back and Stefi said a man in a red truck came twice a week to empty the cans and you could be sitting on it when suddenly there'd be a blast of air on your bum. The dunny-cart man had snuck in and replaced the cans while you sat. Mrs Breuer smoked like a bushfire. There were Craven A tins, matches and smouldering ashtrays everywhere and Stefi said it made her nervous to see her mother heading off to the toilet with a cigarette. Methane and matches, she said, could blow her and the dunny sky-high. Mrs Breuer worked part-time at the library, another place I reckoned those cigarettes could be a menace.

Stefi's father, Konrad Breuer, was a tall man with eyes like tapioca and trousers that he wore too high at the waist. I didn't see any colours on Mr Breuer at first but straightaway something about him gave me the creeps. His strange eyes took in everything – people, machines and tropical ulcers – all with the same flat stare. Only when he looked at Stefi did they go kind of slitty, as if he was trying to work out what she was thinking. Mr Breuer sold aviation equipment and was looking for an office in town. When he saw Dad's office he wanted one in the same building. Dad said they were all taken, but Mr Breuer said ‘all taken' meant nothing to him. Sure enough, a week later someone moved out and Mr Breuer moved in. The other thing he wanted was a piece of Dad's export business. Dad had so many orders he could hardly keep up and Mr Breuer was offering a lot of money. Though he didn't want to sell, Dad was tempted. Aside from Mama's trip and our education the extra capital would help expand the business. But he and Mama were wary.

‘I like Magda,' Mama said, ‘but I'm not sure about her husband. Now that I'm working we'll have money for those extras so let's try not to involve Konrad Breuer.'

As Christmas got closer I discovered I already had what I never knew I wanted – a best friend. Knowing Stefi's family and ours would share Christmas dinner this year made the day extra special.

Our Christmas tree was only plastic, but pretty. Shiny red, gold and blue bubbles caught the light as they twirled, and tinsel winked among the branches. At the base of the tree was a pile of presents but Tim's was too big to fit beneath the branches. Santa had brought him a bike.

‘What about me?' I wailed.

‘When you're bigger,' Dad said, passing me a long box. ‘But look, CP, Santa left you this.'

I wondered about Santa. He'd be awfully hot in that woolly suit and there were no chimneys in Port Moresby so how could he get in? The verandahs were fly-wired and the doors were locked every night. Santa left me a doll with yellow hair and staring eyes. Mama named it Margaret. I didn't care what she named it, I didn't want Margaret. I had Moose and Molly and besides, I didn't want dolls, I wanted a box of seventy-two Lakeland colouring pencils.