Time's Long Ruin (42 page)

‘Lotta good that'll do. They still walk past and look in, and smile, like this.' He demonstrated. ‘Kids that age, you'd think the father woulda taught them a bit of respect.'

‘Don.'

He lost his count. ‘Christ. What?'

‘The Rileys.'

‘What about them?'

‘When did you last see them?'

‘Who, Bill?'

‘The kids.'

He shrugged and started counting again. ‘Dunno. Few days ago. Why?'

Dad picked up a copy of
The News
, opened it and found an article with a photo of the kids on page five. ‘“Four days after their disappearance,”' he read, ‘“police are still no closer to ascertaining the whereabouts of the Riley children.”'

Don stopped. He took the paper from Dad and looked at the picture. ‘When did this happen?' he asked.

Dad shook his head. ‘You let me know if those kids bother you, Don.' He walked from the shop, holding the door for Bert and then letting it slam. Don looked up at him. ‘Careful,' he muttered, picking up another bag and starting to load it with raspberries.

‘Amazing,' Dad said, walking along Day Terrace. ‘They get on a train not thirty feet from his shop . . .'

They walked down the front path of a bungalow that had been made Greek. Two olive trees, staked with droppers and attached with pantyhose, had grown as tall as the house in the few years since Bob could remember cumquats in their place. A few young citrus trees with their lower trunks painted white collected reflected light from the fence. The bluestone façade of the house and the porch and verandah had been disguised with blue and white vitriol tiles, leftover from someone's laundry. The concrete path had been painted brown and a shaky trellis of aluminium poles moved under the weight of a grapevine.

Bert knocked on the door and a small Greek woman with a caterpillar moustache, dressed all in black, opened the door and released a cloud of laurel sulphate mixed with the smell of honey and nuts from fresh baklava. She said a few words in Greek and then Dad showed her a photo of the kids. She took the photo, studied it, lifted her arms and then walked back down the hallway. A moment later she returned with a photo album and sat on a chair on the verandah. She motioned for them to sit beside her, and started showing them photos of her grandchildren.

‘No,' Dad said, pointing at the photo, ‘have you seen these particular children? They would've passed by here, past your house, see, here, along there.'

She kissed the photo and managed a word that sounded like ‘correspondence', and Dad reclaimed the photo and sighed.

A few minutes later they were sitting on a brick fence, smoking. ‘What are we going to charge Grosser with?' Bert asked

Dad shrugged. ‘Stupidity.' He inhaled until his lungs were full. ‘I'm smoking too many of these,' he said, looking at the day-old rollie.

‘Makes you impotent,' Bert replied.

‘That doesn't worry me.' He stopped to think. ‘We should make an example of him. Otherwise we'll have a hundred cockheads like him to deal with.'

Erwin Grosser had phoned the Freeling police the day before. In an agitated voice he'd explained how a man driving a Holden had just stopped at his house at Daveystown. He described the man (a near perfect match of the police description) and the pistol he'd waved at him as he made him fill up his car's radiator. He described the children, again, almost exactly the same as the papers. Except for one thing: ‘The boy, the nine year old, kept looking at me and trying to say something. Then they drove off towards Nuriootpa.'

The Freeling police asked him to come to the station. They made him sign a statement saying he'd made a false report. After admitting his guilt he explained, ‘I did it to get your attention. You should be lookin' out my way. There's a million places he could have them.'

Dad and Bert worked their way along Day Terrace. When they got to Kevin Johns' house, Dad said, ‘Do we really need to?'

‘Yes we do.'

‘I've spoken to him.'

‘Come on.'

They sat with him on the front porch, dangling their legs into a garden of dead ryegrass. ‘You had her here quite often,' Bert said, taking the lead. ‘She must have talked to you.'

‘Not me. Each other perhaps.'

‘But she was a mature girl. She liked to hang around adults.'

Kevin shook his head. ‘She came here for Mariel.'

‘So you never . . .?'

Kevin looked at him. ‘Talked to her? Of course I did.'

‘Like that time, what was the date?' Bert took out his notebook.

‘It doesn't matter, Bert,' Dad interrupted, and Bert looked at him with red eyes that were crying out for sleep. ‘Henry said you and Janice used to be quite chummy,' Dad continued.

‘Chummy? What does that mean? What are you saying?'

‘Nothing like that, Kevin. Only, if she talked to you, she might have told you something useful.'

‘Bob, we've been over this. She never told me nothin'.'

‘You were her basketball coach?'

‘Yes.'

‘So?'

‘I can't think of anything,' a voice whispered from behind the flyscreen door.

‘Mariel,' Kevin scolded, ‘you shouldn't be listening.'

The short, brown-haired girl opened the door. ‘Even if she'd told me a secret, Mister Page, I'd tell you now, I swear.'

Bert twisted his body to see her. ‘She got on with all her teachers?'

‘There were one or two, but she didn't let them bother her.'

‘Go on, get in, and close that door,' Kevin said, and she was gone.

Bert looked back at Kevin. ‘That basketball team, must have been a bit of work?'

‘Ah, they're fine. It's a bit of a laugh.'

‘You ever coached cricket, football?'

Kevin glared at him again. ‘I've only got a daughter.'

‘Of course. Those little ones, they're full of life, eh?'

Kevin shook his head. ‘What's your point?'

‘Makes you feel young, eh?'

Dad looked at his partner. ‘What
is
your point?'

Bert glared at him. ‘Just talkin'.'

Dad turned to Kevin and said, ‘I suppose you're glad you didn't let Mariel go to the beach.'

‘Yes,' he replied. ‘You say your prayers and thank God. But it's all down to chance, isn't it? I was just lucky. I nearly said yes.'

‘So why'd you say no?' Bert asked.

Kevin looked at him, but didn't answer. Instead, he turned to Dad. ‘We were meant to be going out. I didn't think she'd be home in time. Anyway,' he continued, returning to Bert, ‘I wasn't sure if it was safe, at that age.'

‘And you were too busy to go?'

‘Yes, I was.' He looked at Dad. ‘What's this fella on about?'

‘It's alright, Kev, he's tired.'

‘There are a million other people you could be talkin' to.' He stood up and looked at them both. ‘None of them helped you search the Port River.'

‘Sit down, Kev.'

‘Bob, you oughta give your mate a lesson in manners.'

And with that he was off, stepping inside and slamming the door. Dad looked at Bert. ‘Good work.'

Bert waved a long, brown, crooked finger in my Dad's face. ‘Are you a bloody copper?' he asked. ‘“He's tired.” I'm trying to do my job, like you should be.'

‘Bert . . .'

Bert pulled a face and imitated Dad. ‘“What's your point?” I'll tell you. You don't know it wasn't him, or anyone. If you're scared of upsetting your neighbours . . .'

Dad stood up and started walking out of the Johns' yard. Bert was only a few steps behind him. ‘I won't have you do that to me, Bob.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Listen!'

Dad stopped in the middle of the footpath.

‘We're meant to be partners,' Bert whispered loudly, from a few feet behind. ‘If you're not gonna back me up . . .'

Dad turned around. ‘What?'

‘Then someone else should be running things.'

‘Well, you're welcome to go ask, mate. You're entitled.'

Bert took a step towards him. ‘How'd you have felt?'

Dad stopped to think. ‘I was getting there.'

‘And how would it be, in a year or two, if it turned out that he – '

‘I was getting there!' He paused. ‘I didn't get where I am by missing things, Bert.' Again, a long pause. ‘I'm sorry I questioned you. I shouldn't have.'

The sun was low and heavy in the sky. The two men cast shadows halfway across the road. They stood still, without talking, without moving, without thinking how it would look to neighbours watching from behind closed curtains.

‘I'm a naughty boy,' Dad said, starting to smile.

‘Bugger me,' Bert replied, grinning and kicking my dad up the arse, walking ahead and motioning for him to catch up.

Meanwhile, back at 7A Thomas Street, I was sitting on the couch in the hot living room, staring up at photos on the wall. Liz came in, smiled at me, opened the front window and waited for a breeze. Nothing. Then she lifted the curtain, watching, waiting for it to rise. She looked out of the window and there was Mr Hessian, headed home from work. He met her eyes but then looked ahead. Then he thought better of it, looked back and waved. ‘I have a concrete Virgin,' he said, not quite loud enough for her to hear, pointing to the lump under my window.

Liz sat down at the piano, removing a few Matchbox cars and using her handkerchief to clean off weeks of dust.

‘Like to hear something?' she asked.

‘Yes,' I smiled, having never, I think, heard her play. Mum had told me that she'd been very good. That she'd studied at the conservatorium, given concerts in Elder Hall, Sydney, Melbourne, but that she'd given it all up to please Bill. And not just given it up – but closed the piano lid for good, just to make sure there'd be no lingering memories.

Liz searched through a pile of manuscripts on the lid and found a book of music hall songs. She opened it and flattened it out until the spine cracked. Then she put it on the piano and lifted her fingers above the keys. They hovered for a few moments and then there was a chord, and another, and her voice, ‘
My bonnie he's out on the ocean, While sadly I wait on the
shore . . .
' She became louder, pressing the keys harder, before stopping. She tried to remember some Satie but couldn't get beyond the first few bars.

Now Janice was beside her. She'd been learning for three months but it wasn't looking good. She'd use a single finger to clunk out ‘Three Blind Mice' and when Liz said, ‘Gentle, gentle,' she'd just shrug and reply, ‘They're the notes I gotta play.'

‘Janice, if you're not going to take it seriously . . .'

‘You know what she does?' Janice asked.

‘Who?'

‘Miss Kelly, my teacher. She picks her nose, like this . . . and then she plays something.'

‘So?'

‘There's bacteria, all over the keys.'

Back in her living room, Liz stopped playing. ‘You never wash your hands,' she whispered.

‘I do.'

The lessons only lasted a few more weeks, before Janice told Miss Kelly, ‘I could get conjunctivitis.'

‘Pardon?'

‘From the germs, on the keys,' indicating her nose.

Then Friday nights had become the Third Croydon Brownies, which had only lasted a few months. ‘We line up and sing “God Save the Queen” and then we have to put our hands out and they walk past and make sure our fingernails are cut short.'

Bill came into the room with a beer in his hand. He switched on the television and waited until it warmed up. Mum came in with a cup of tea for Liz. She put it on top of the piano and said, ‘Casserole's in the oven.' Then she started singing: ‘
Roll out the barrel . . .

' ‘Ssh!' Bill said, watching grainy black and white images form on the screen. It was an ad for peanut butter – a mother in an apron spreading it lovingly on thick bread for two anxiously waiting children. ‘Who eats peanut butter?' Bill asked, sitting down.

‘Anna does,' Liz replied.

‘I've never seen her eat it.'

‘She likes it. She used to keep a jar in her room.' She looked at Mum. ‘She'd scoop it out with her finger and eat it, straight.' Both women grimaced. ‘Until it was mouldy,' Liz recalled, closing the piano lid. ‘Then she'd never touch it.'

Bill was in his own world, listening to a man standing beside a highway discussing the merits of new versus secondhand Holdens. He could hear galahs, and early evening crickets, and see stars pricking a still blue sky streaked with vapour clouds.