‘You’re quite a weight, old feller,’ she told him. ‘Reckon we’ll have to ask your daddy to carry you home, eh?’
Tactful for once, Mal said nothing. This was such a good evening, he didn’t want to spoil it by having to think about Bill – and as for his father carrying him home, why on earth should he? The two of them seldom exchanged a word, far less a touch.
I hate him,
Mal thought automatically now. Coming back from – from wherever it was he’d been, saying now he’s home we must have what he wants for dinner, getting into
my
bed with
my
mammy and making me sleep on the horrible, hard sofa, telling Mammy she’s making a nancy-boy out of her son . . . The list went on and on, though Bill had only been home four or five days.
‘Can you see Daddy, Mal? He’s not an easy man to miss . . . what colour would you say his hair was, son?’
‘Yaller,’ Mal muttered. That was another sore point. Bill had looked at Mal’s dark, straight hair and then at his own blond curls and at Mammy’s beautiful, light-brown fall of hair and had said, resentfully, that the kid must be a changeling, with colouring which favoured neither his mother nor father.
‘He’s a sulky little brute, what’s more,’ he had growled, not bothering to keep his voice down, though he knew full well that Mal was only feet away, in the living-room, lying on the crude bed of sofa cushions which Kath had made up for her deposed son. ‘Looks at me under his brows, don’t answer when I speak to him . . . I can’t abide a sulky kid.’
‘He’s not sulky, Bill,’ his mother had said. ‘But he doesn’t know you very well, yet. He’s – he’s shy. After all, you’re a stranger, really.’
‘A stranger? I’m his pa, Goddammit!’
‘Yes, but he wasn’t quite a year old when you went away, love. You don’t expect him to remember you, do you?’
There had been a laugh in her voice, a sort of soft, teasing sweetness which made Mal grip both hands into fists and then bite the knuckles. How
dared
she push him out of her bed and put that – that yellow-haired man in his place? How dared she laugh and tease him . . . no doubt presently she would curl round him as, until five nights ago, she had curled round Mal. Then, he supposed wistfully, she would kiss that Bill on the tickly back of the neck and laugh when he giggled and say ‘Night-night, sleep tight’, just as she always had with Mal.
There was a short pause, then Bill had spoken again. ‘He was a bonza kid then, Kath; what went wrong?’
There was a smooth, snuggling sound which Mal could not interpret, then his mother spoke again; soothingly, sweet and soft as honey dripping from the comb.
‘The war happened, my love, and Mal had to learn to grow up with only me for company. Oh, he’s been to kindergarten, has friends, plays out when he can, but he’s become a bit of a loner. And I couldn’t provide him with a playmate with you away now, could I?’
Mal had sat up in bed, all the hairs on the back of his neck prickling erect. She had spoken in an almost pleading tone, yet the laugh was there, the tease. He heard more rustling, then the creak of bedsprings, and then his father said, ‘Oh Kath, Kath – dear Lord, I’ve missed this!’
This? What did he mean by ‘this’?
‘Me too, dearest. Oh, Bill, when you do that . . .’
The laughter had gone from his mother’s voice and reappeared now, as if by magic, in his father’s.
‘D’you like it, girlie? Shall I do it again?’
‘Oh Bill, Bill! Oh dear God . . . oh Bill!’
Mal knelt up. The beast was hurting her, he would go and fetch a knife out of the kitchen and then run into the bedroom and tell Bill to leave her alone or he’d stab him to death! That would teach him that Mal was neither a changeling nor that other thing he had been called – a nancy-boy, that was it – but a person who could look after Kath perfectly well without any help from
him
, thank you very much.
Only he hadn’t moved, of course. And presently, he had pulled his blanket up, shame flooding over him in a great wave. It was no use, he was just a little boy and Bill was a big man. He couldn’t do anything to save Kath, and in his heart he knew she didn’t want to be saved. So he had lain down again, and presently, slept.
But right now, with the seething, chattering crowd all about him and firecrackers going off at intervals, with a long line of people with their hands clasping each other’s waists so that they looked like a snake weaving up and down the middle of the road, he was in charge. His mother would look to him for protection and companionship, at least until the hated Bill turned up. Perhaps he’s gone away again, Mal thought hopefully, as he scanned the crowd and didn’t see a yellow head anywhere. Perhaps he’s gone back to the war. Perhaps we won’t ever see him again, and I can go back and sleep in my big bed tonight, and cuddle Mammy and make her laugh.
But he didn’t believe it would happen, not really. His father would turn up, like the bad penny he was, and start boasting and shouting and trying to pretend he was important, when Mal knew very well that Bill was nothing.
‘What does your dad do?’ one of the kids in the kindergarten had asked him only the previous day. ‘My dad’s a tram-driver.
Ting-a-ling, ting-a-ling, move farther down the car, please
.’
Mal had mumbled that his father had been a soldier, that very soon he would . . . he would . . . but the kid wasn’t interested. He moved off, pretending to turn the handle of an imaginary ticket-machine, shouting to imaginary passengers to climb aboard, or mind the step, or show us your season ticket then, sport.
So Bill wasn’t even any good to boast about. Fathers were supposed to go out to work and bring home presents and exciting food, they weren’t supposed to hang around the flat all day and grumble about somewhere called Civvy Street where a decent bloke wasn’t wanted no more. They took their sons to the beach, or to the park to play cricket or football, they didn’t lounge on the sofa drinking warm beer, or go mysteriously off somewhere and return late at night, singing rude songs which made Mammy cry out to him to ‘Hush, before you get us thrown out!’
‘There he is! There’s your daddy, Mal – see his fair head above the crowd?’
Mal pretended to look but he didn’t, not really. He stared at waist-level, because all men looked the same to him then and he could pretend for a little longer that his father had gone off once more and wouldn’t be returning for absolutely ages. Weeks, months – years!
Kath gave an impatient little cluck and swung him off his feet. She pointed. Coming down the road towards them was an untidy group of men, most of whom gripped a beer-bottle in one fist. They were singing, shouting, cat-calling. Half-way down the line Bill’s blond head shone, unmistakable.
‘See him, love? Give him a wave and a cheer . . . go on, call him – it’ll please him no end.’
Obedient to the pleading in her voice Mal called, but kept his voice low; he didn’t want to give the intruder into his life any false hopes, not he! War had been declared from the first moment his father had ordered him to do something –
Git your bleedin’ fingers off that bleedin’ cake, sport, or I’ll teach you a lesson you won’t forgit!
– and Mal did not intend to go weakly giving in and making friends, just because it was Armistice Day and people were letting off firecrackers.
But Kath, who had hoisted him up so that he could see over the heads of the crowd, didn’t know any of this. ‘Can you see him, Mal?’ she asked rather breathlessly, for her son was heavy. ‘Go on, shout!’
And then it happened. A tram came down Swanston Street, ringing its bell. It was almost empty, but the driver had slowed down, presumably because of the press of people. Mal expected the men to get out of the way but suddenly someone shouted something and men who had begun shambling towards the pavement turned round again and began to charge unsteadily towards the oncoming vehicle. The tram-driver rang his bell more furiously than ever . . . then stopped, and Mal watched, awed, as the men, his father well in the lead, clambered on to the tram, pulled the conductor and the few passengers out of their seats, and lastly evicted the driver, who stood uncertainly beside his vehicle, apparently attempting to reason with Bill, who was nearest.
‘Mal? What’s happening, son?’
‘They’ve stopped the tram,’ Mal announced. ‘Oh! Oh!’
For his father was now completely in command. He issued orders, pointing to this man, to that, and then barked a further command, bending down as he did so to grip the tram just behind its front wheels. Everyone followed suit and before Mal had done more than take in a breath the tram was lifted bodily off the rails and was crossing the width of the road, the pavement . . . people screamed, cheered, shouted, but the tram-carriers ignored advice and recriminations alike. Using the tram like a gigantic spear, with Bill at their head, the men thundered towards the huge plate-glass window of the Electricity Company’s office.
The crash was incredible, unbelievable. A thousand firecrackers could not have made such a marvellous sound and the shards of glass, erupting into the store, caught the light and twinkled like a thousand stars. Mal, in his mother’s arms, screamed at the top of his voice, his hair on end, his eyes bright with excitement and pride.
‘Daddy! Daddy Chandler! Bill Chandler’s my daddy, he’s the best man in the whole world!’
Giddy with excitement and reflected glory, he found himself on the pavement once more whilst beside him, Kath was saying flatly: ‘He’s drunk, the stupid wallaby! Dear God, what’ve we done to deserve this? What’ve we done? They’ll make him pay, Mal, they’ll make your daddy pay – don’t say a word now, we’ve got to get out of this.’
‘I’m going to wait for my dad,’ Mal said in a hard, grown-up voice. ‘I won’t go away from here without my dad. Leave off tugging at my hand. Mammy – I’m going home with my dad.’
And presently, when Bill joined them, Mal let go of Kath and attached himself, limpet-like, to his father. Bill shouted with laughter and hoisted his small son up on to one broad shoulder and told him to ‘hang on!’ and then put his arm round Kath’s waist and marched her off down the middle of the road to see ‘What me an’ the lads have done to make today a
real
night to remember!’
‘They’ll crucify you for this, Bill,’ Kath whispered, trying to pull away. ‘Don’t you want a decent job, a place of our own? You won’t get it by acting in that wild way – half Melbourne must have seen what you did tonight.’
But Mal held on to his father’s blond hair and felt the muscles in his father’s broad shoulders move as he strode out and knew only a blinding, dizzying happiness. His father was a real man, a man who could pick up a tram and ram it through a plate-glass window and then walk down the middle of the road like a king! And when they reached home and Bill lost patience with what he called Kath’s whingeing and slapped her across the face and pushed her into their bedroom, Mal quite saw that a man who could pick up a tram mustn’t take any heed of a silly woman. He got into his own makeshift bed and cuddled down, planning how, when he was a man, he, too, would pick up a tram and hurl it through a window. And when he heard his mother begin to weep he thought what a pity it was that she couldn’t enjoy things like he and his father could.
He did have a moment’s doubt because Mammy had wept, but presently she stopped crying and gave a watery chuckle and he relaxed. It was all right, she admired his dad too, women had to pretend to disapprove of tram-throwing.
Soon, he slept and dreamed of fireworks, and fizzy lemonade, and the Southern Cross blazing down on him as he, single-handed, hurled a tram through the biggest plate-glass window in Melbourne.
One
August 1927
TESS WAS DREAMING
of the sea. She dreamed that she was running unsteadily across a long, dark-gold strand where, beyond the gentle slope of the beach, were the white horses, the tumbled grey waters, the darker line of the horizon where sea and sky met.
She was running unsteadily because in the dream she was small, very small. She had come down on to the sands by herself and she knew it was naughty, in the back of her mind the tiny voice of conscience told her she’d be sorry when They found out, but the young Tess loved the sea and the shore, was prepared to take the consequences.
She reached the breakwater and collapsed on the smooth, downward-sloping bank where the sand around the bottom had been eaten away by the restless waves. Here, the breakwater rose out of a long, deep pool, the sea-water in the pool now rising, now sinking, its reflections of the scudding grey clouds barely beginning to settle down before another wave shattered their peace. When Tess looked towards the sea she could see the waves surging into the long pool, so she must not go too close – it was dangerous. If she slid down the sand and into that water it would close over her head without a sound and she would be drowned-dead in a very short time. Someone was always reminding her that the sea was never to be taken lightly, that though she loved to play in it, the waves were not truly her friends, and she took heed. She had been knocked over by a monstrous wave when she was even smaller than she was now, because she had run away from her daddy and paddled out, never realising the monster was lurking, waiting for someone to come within its range. It had hurt quite badly. It had pelted her with small stones and sand, as well as crushing her with the sheer weight of its water, and her gasp of outrage – for until that moment she had always thought of the sea as her friend – had nearly been her last. Water rushed into her lungs . . . then she was snatched from the wave, tipped upside down, squeezed like her bath-time sponge until all the water ran out . . . and she had laughed down into the worried face of the person who held her, and tried to kick the naughty sea.
But she had learned her lesson. Never turn your back on the sea, never let it trick you, beware of even the stillest, most tempting water when it was deeper than your small fingers. So now she sat on the hard wet sand and stared down at the goings-on of the sea-creatures in the long pool. A tiny crab scuttled, then disappeared into the sand. Transparent shrimps skated along the bottom, making little clouds rise up where they settled. Barnacles waved tiny filaments from their places on the wooden groin which stretched from the top of the beach right down to the low-water mark, so that now it was half hidden by the restless, choppy caress of the waves.