Time's Long Ruin (49 page)

She rubbed her lower back. ‘What do you think?'

Bill sat on the edge of the verandah. ‘So many books, it'd be a real shame,' he mused. Then he looked at me and smiled. ‘Can you keep a secret, Master Page?'

I nodded my head.

A few minutes later we were all in his shed. He switched on a light and a mini-warehouse lit up. Linen, still packed tight and airless in plastic bags, filled shelves that reached from floor to ceiling. He turned to Dad, smiled and offered his hands. ‘Well, Detective, you better take me in.'

Dad farted, grinned and swatted a moth. ‘This shows tremendous creativity,' he said to Mum, who just stood, stony-faced, her arms crossed.

Bill walked around the shed and selected one of everything: pillow cases, sheets, tea towels . . . then he handed the pile to Mum. ‘Only the best,' he said.

‘I'm not touchin' them,' she replied.

But he just held them there.

‘Okay.'

‘Now, if we move all of the towels from there to here, and these sheets, we can stack them higher . . . that should leave plenty of room . . . plenty.'

We all looked at Mum.

‘Alright, as long as they're not in the house.'

We started rearranging the linen, working together for two hours under Bill's direction: ‘More in there, move these, throw that lot in the boot of my car.' At last he had a purpose, a job that would have a result, that would soothe the womenfolk (Liz completely agreed with Mum) and create a harmony of Faulkner, flannelette sheets and neat, polished hallways.

The boxes of books were stacked, one by one, on the dusty shelves. Even Mum and Liz helped. When we were finished Bill gave me a spare key to his shed, so I could come out and make a selection whenever I liked. ‘Only thing,' he said. ‘Don't tell the cops.'

Our problem now was the boot-full of linen we had left over. ‘From the boot it comes, and to the boot it goes,' Bill smiled, as we surveyed the stash.

And then he had an idea.

A few minutes later he was sitting behind the wheel of his Austin, driving along Thomas Street at walking pace, as me and Dad, our arms full of linen, ran up garden paths and left a trail of sheets and valances, doilies, tablecloths and embroidered handkerchiefs on everyone's doorstep (including Eric Hessian's). Then we knocked, and jogged off, tripping over gnomes and garden hoses nourishing dead lawn.

Time to suffer the grandparents again. The following morning Grandma Page sat with her hands in her lap at our kitchen table, staring over at Nan and Pop. Mum stood beside the kettle as Dad sliced Jubilee cake. Grandma took the knife from him and said, ‘No, not like that, you'll flatten it.' She sawed the cake and flattened it anyway. Then she looked at Mum and asked, ‘How's Liz?'

Mum smiled. ‘Better. She was sedated for most of that first week.'

Grandma looked at me, and, spitting on her handkerchief, wiped a spot on my face. ‘And what about you, Henry?'

‘Pardon?'

‘How are you coping?'

‘I think he misses them,' Dad said, patting me on the knee.

‘You miss them?' Grandma continued.

‘Yes.'

‘Terrible business.' She looked at Dad. ‘You gonna find this fella, Bob?'

‘We're trying. We've had hundreds looking.'

‘I know all that, but are you gonna find him?'

Dad looked at me. ‘Perhaps.'

‘What, fifty, sixty per cent chance?'

‘Mum, it's not like predicting the weather.'

Grandma wasn't too impressed with this. Dad could guess what she was thinking, Just like your father, never give a straight answer.

‘This fella sounds clever,' Pop offered.

Dad sighed. ‘Or lucky.'

‘But there'll be something he missed, eh?'

‘Perhaps.'

Grandma looked back at me again. She spat on her hanky but this time I wiped my face with a tea towel. ‘Well, as terrible as it is, you'll get over it,' she said.

My face hardened and my eyes locked onto hers.

‘You'll move on,' she said.

‘Move on?'

‘Henry,' Dad warned.

‘Of course you'll remember them, you'll have wonderful memories. But they'll fade.'

‘They won't.'

‘Henry,' Dad growled.

‘Who says they're dead?'

‘Henry.'

By now Grandma had a slice of cake on everyone's plate. ‘Butter?' she asked, handing me a knife, handle first.

‘I like it plain,' I replied.

And then she just smiled at the others.

The kettle whistled and Mum turned it off, picking it up and bringing it over to the table to fill the pot. Grandma was looking at Pop. She was studying his face, especially his neatly clipped moustache. She was looking at his gold-plated cufflinks and his fingernails, cut back beyond what she thought was healthy. ‘You're off on a cruise?' she asked him, all of a sudden, deciding she'd had enough of the Rileys.

‘A short one,' Pop replied.

‘Fiji?'

‘Yes.'

‘Short? Short's the Troubridge to Kangaroo Island.'

‘I've never been there.'

‘No one's been there.' She stopped to pick at something between her teeth. When her finger couldn't reach it she used her tongue. ‘Just some wheat paddocks and koalas,' she explained. ‘Nothing you couldn't see at Clare.'

‘I hear they have some wonderful rock formations.'

She smiled. ‘Well, we've all seen a rock. But Fiji . . . goodness. It's a nice life that some lead.'

I could tell Pop was getting pissed off. ‘We're retired now, Pearl. This is what we've been working towards for years.'

‘And good on you. Lucky you had some money to put away. I never did.'

‘Mum,' Dad whispered, bowing his head.

‘After Bob's dad died, I was left to cope: rent, groceries. Still, we got by, and look at him now. Big wig with the police. Everyone relying on him to find these kiddies.'

‘Anyone could afford a cruise,' Pop explained. ‘If they put a little money away.'

‘Oh no, that's not true,' she replied. ‘Maybe if you live at Unley Park.'

‘What's that got to do with it?'

‘I must come out and have a look one day.'

‘You're more than welcome.'

‘Only, I don't like to come uninvited.'

Pop looked at Dad, who just smiled. Then Pop stood up, picked up the teapot and started pouring. ‘Consider yourself invited.'

‘Nice. If I get the time. Legacy keeps me busy.'

‘Legacy?' Pop asked.

‘My uncle,' Dad explained.

Then Pop turned to Dad and asked, ‘So what about your mystery man?'

Dad shrugged. ‘It's a bit like this case. Leads going everywhere, and nowhere.'

‘You deciphered those letters?'

‘No, try keep away from 'em. The more you look, the more . . .'

‘. . . you become obsessed,' Mum said, staring at him.

‘Hardly
obsessed
.'

‘Okay, preoccupied.'

‘It's my job.'

‘It's more than that.'

Dad was the real mystery man. He was sitting on the Somerton bus reading
The Rubaiyat
, scribbling four cryptic lines inside the cover as he grinned. He tore the final page and put the scrap in his fob-pocket. Then he got off the bus and walked down Jetty Street, feeling in his pocket for the poison he'd bought. When he arrived at the beach he sat on a bench and looked out, taking the time to wave to a passer-by. Eventually he got up and walked to a deli, returning and sitting against the seawall with a pasty. And then he waited for night. When it was cold, and the sun's last rays had slipped from the horizon, he put the poison on his tongue. He closed his eyes, and then lost consciousness, and his fingers opened, allowing the wax paper that had contained the poison to blow away down the beach and out to sea.

‘Maybe he drove there,' Grandma said. ‘But where was his car? They never found it?'

‘No,' Dad replied.

‘And he'd shaven. But where? There's nowhere at the railway station, and didn't you say, Bob, that none of the boarding houses or hotels recognised him?'

‘None.'

‘And why did he keep the stub for his suitcase?'

‘What's it matter?' I said suddenly. ‘He's dead . . . he's gone. What about Janice?'

Silence. Grandma looked at me. ‘Henry?'

‘Well so what? You say, “The memories will fade” . . . but they were my friends.'

Dad looked at me. ‘Henry.' But he wasn't really growling.

‘You'll get over it . . .'

Grandma put her cup in her saucer. ‘It's just a discussion, Henry. If you talked about your friends all day you'd grow morose. It helps to take your mind off things.'

I stared at her.

‘It'll affect your moods,' she explained. ‘You need an outing. Maybe I'll take you to a picture show.'

I crossed my arms. ‘No thanks.'

She shook her head and looked at Dad, as if to say, Well?

‘Do you want to talk about them, Henry?' Dad asked.

‘Just don't wanna pretend . . . it's over.'

‘We weren't doing that,' Grandma stated.

Dad looked at her. ‘He's a kid. Let him go.'

‘I don't believe – '

‘Pearl!' Pop interrupted, raising his voice. ‘Leave it!'

Grandma picked her bag up from the floor. ‘Maybe I should go,' she whispered.

‘Mum . . .'

‘No, I seem to be saying everything wrong.'

‘Drink your tea,' Dad said.

Grandma was unsure. But she always came back quickly. ‘Oh, look at this.' She opened her purse and took out an envelope. Then she produced a few locks of snow-white hair, holding them in front of me, smiling. ‘Guess who?' she asked.

‘Me?'

‘Yes. From your very first haircut. I found it the other day and thought, I must bring it and show him.' She held the hair next to mine and said, ‘Look at that, he was like a little rabbit.'

And she was off, narrating the history of my skinny legs, crooked baby teeth and faded freckles. The story of my falling in the toilet, chicken-pox scars and my ability to read brochures when I was only four. Although she whined, her voice was full of love. For the person, I guess, that would be her replacement on this planet. And in the words she spoke I heard a eulogy for Janice, Anna and Gavin.

‘He could never balance, and when he fell, it was always face first.'

Chapter Seven

It was late March, the tail end of a summer that had dragged. The heat came in short bursts, and it would warm but never burn your skin. Weak northerlies blew early autumn leaves across footpaths dotted with gum resin. One Wednesday afternoon a man removing old windows from his house near the school started a fire in his backyard when he went in for lunch. Mr Meus smelt the smoke and rang the office to ring the fire brigade. Then he let us skip our maths lesson to watch the engines arrive, undo their hoses, remove iron from the fence and extinguish the fire.

One Saturday afternoon, as I was reading
Peter Pan
in the Croydon playground (the key to the shed on a piece of string around my neck), Andrew came up on his bike and called across the monkey bars, ‘Wanna come to my house?'

We arrived to find his sister watching television. She was still in her pyjamas, eating raw cornflakes from the packet, and scratching the dog with her foot. ‘Hello, Henry,' she smiled.

‘Hello, Kate.'

She looked at her brother. ‘You could've at least told me.'

‘What?'

And then she returned to me. ‘Still nothing about Janice?'

‘No.'

‘Dad reckons they're dead.'

I didn't reply. I looked at Andrew and asked, ‘Where are your parents?'

‘Dad's at the pub. Mum's at work.'

Which was an invitation to spread Lego across the hallway floor, make cheese, jam and gherkin sandwiches, fire off caps in the backyard, and sword-fight with barbecue tools. And to see how fast a brake-less bike could hurtle down Henry Street.

‘Come on,' Andrew urged, taking his own bike and urging me to use his sister's.

‘Will she mind?' I asked.

‘Course not. Come on.'

He rode down the driveway and straight out onto the street, narrowly avoiding a Volkswagen he hadn't seen behind his mother's pittosporum hedge. I walked Kate's bike to the end of the drive and stood watching.