too. You can say that when she comes home I’ll tell her what I know, what I’ve seen, what I’ve done. Ha ha! See how she likes that) too strong to care when I leave the last plank and go up to my knees in the swamp, too strong to be stopped now. I reach the bank. Now it is only a short climb to the passion-fruit shed and our backyard. Just grab the vine by the track and clamber up. The vine breaks. I fall. I crawl back to the slope, begin clambering, slide to the bottom. I look across the swamp. Only the rising water, the bending rushes, only the rain, the wind. All I have to do is get to the top, I have done it many times every day, it is not even a hill, it is only a slope. I run at it and grab the higher part of the vine as I slip. The vine holds. It is as if the slope has become a steep cliff, but I hold on. I move inch by inch. The vine breaks, but I do not fall. My fingers dig deep into the mud, I force them to drag me higher. I am at the top. I stand by the passion-fruit shed and look across the swamp. The wind is lighter, the rushes are straighter. The rain stops. Nobody is out in the swamp. Now I can hear the frogs again. I look at the sky and see the clouds moving from the moon. There is moonlight on our garden when I walk by it to the wash-house. I take off my clothes in the wash-house and turn on the tap in the tub. I climb into the tub and wash off the mud. I wipe myself with grubby clothes from the heap in the corner. I run naked into the house. I get into bed beside Cal. He does not move. I lie there. I think I am asleep. Then I hear Cal whimpering. He is crying in his sleep, his body is trembling, he is whispering something in a little-boy voice. He is whispering, ‘Mummy, Mummy.’
O
NE SUNNY
Saturday, two weeks after Mr Wiggins’ accident, I was hiding in my room when I heard voices out the front. Although the window was up, the blind was down, so I could listen without being noticed. I crawled from under the bed and stood by the blind, listening. The voices were angry. They belonged to Mrs Kelly and Fat Norman.
‘You haven’t been here long enough to know us,’ Mrs Kelly said. ‘If you knew us you wouldn’t dare suggest such a thing. You’re an educated man, surely you can control your emotions.’
‘This is a matter of reason,’ Fat Norman said. ‘I’ve reasoned this out, I’m not rushing into it. My wife and I have given it a great deal of thought. I assure you it’s no instant reaction, Mrs Kelly.’
‘But it only happened yesterday!’ Mrs Kelly cried. ‘You haven’t had enough time to think about it.’
‘Yesterday?’ he said. ‘This began long before yesterday.’
‘I thought you said it was yesterday he let your son, let your Bruce, have a ride,’ said Mrs Kelly. ‘Isn’t that what you said?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But I don’t—’
‘Well, how
can
you have given it much thought?’ she asked. ‘Even if you and your wife sat up all night talking about it, it still wouldn’t be long enough.’
‘Yesterday was the climax,’ he said. ‘I can assure you I gave it a great deal of thought before yesterday. In fact, I began thinking about it only a day or so after I arrived.’
‘How
could
you?’ asked Mrs Kelly. ‘Do you expect me to take you seriously, Mr Norman? Do you know what you’re saying?’
‘Perfectly well,’ he said. ‘I’m saying I find his behaviour distasteful in the extreme. I’m saying I should tell him so.’
‘You’re saying a lot more than that,’ Mrs Kelly said. ‘You’re accusing him of something wicked.’
‘I’m saying he is capable of such behaviour,’ said Fat Norman. ‘Nothing more than that—at the moment.’
‘I’m surprised by one thing, Mr Norman,’ said Mrs Kelly, her voice turning very serious. ‘For an educated man, you seem surprisingly unaware of the implications of what you say. Don’t you realise it’s slander?’
‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘I’m a parent. I’m expressing a natural concern for the welfare of my children.’
‘But you don’t have to be slanderous about it,’ said Mrs Kelly.
‘Leave me to be the judge of that, Mrs Kelly,’ Fat Norman said in his classroom voice.
‘I certainly won’t!’ she cried. ‘Not when it concerns
somebody who has done
you
no harm. I’ll tell you this: I’m beginning to wonder if you’re the right sort of person to have charge of
our
children. There!’
This was shouted so loudly it seemed to have shut Fat Norman up. It was so loud it must have reached Dad, who was in our kitchen. I heard him hopping along the passage and opening the front door. I stood stiffly by the blind, wondering if I should risk peeping. I wondered if Caroline, across in her room, was listening too. She had been out late with Buster last night, and Dad had told Cal and me at breakfast that she was having a lie-in today, but I didn’t reckon that anybody, even Caroline, could sleep through the noise Mrs Kelly and Fat Norman were making.
‘What’s going on out here?’ I heard Dad ask. ‘Where’s the fight?’
‘We were on our way to see you, Frank,’ said Mrs Kelly. ‘Mr Norman has something on his mind. Tell Frank what you have on your mind, Mr Norman.’ I could imagine what sort of look she was giving Mr Norman, I had stopped that sort of look many a time myself.
‘It’s quite straightforward,’ Fat Norman said. ‘Nothing to be hysterical—’
‘Tell Frank what you told me,’ said Mrs Kelly.
Fat Norman said: ‘I’m saying, Mr Baird, that I’m entitled to tell that chap at the wharf not to pester my children. Now that’s all I’m saying.’
Mrs Kelly said: ‘That’s not all you were saying to me. You were saying Sam Phelps was an evil fellow.’
‘Sam Phelps?’ said Dad, sounding amazed.
‘I said he
might
be up to no good,’ said Fat Norman. ‘His
interest in my children could be perfectly innocent for all I know. But I prefer not to encourage him.’
‘Slander, isn’t it, Frank?’ asked Mrs Kelly.
‘Sounds like a misunderstanding,’ Dad said. ‘There’s no harm in Sam Phelps, Mr Norman.’
‘That’s what I told him,’ Mrs Kelly said. ‘But you can’t reason with him. He decided as soon as he got to Calliope Bay that poor Mr Phelps was evil, and nothing will shift him. I’m surprised an educated man can be so old-fashioned—pointing the finger at somebody because he lives alone and minds his own business.’
‘It wasn’t his business to give my son a ride on his horse,’ said Fat Norman. ‘And why does he stand on the road and look at the houses? He’s looking for the children!’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Mr Norman,’ said Dad. ‘I get what you mean. But you’re barking up the wrong tree. We all know Sam Phelps. There’s no harm in Sam Phelps.’
‘Exactly what I told him,’ Mrs Kelly said. ‘I’m blowed if I can see the danger in young Bruce riding the horse. You should be ashamed of yourself, Mr Norman. You’ll want us to go down and lynch Mr Phelps next. Would that satisfy you?’
‘All I’m saying—’ Fat Norman began.
‘Ask anybody in the bay about Mr Phelps,’ said Mrs Kelly. ‘Ask my husband—here he comes now.’
I peeped out. Mrs Kelly, Dad and Fat Norman were looking along the road. I heard the Reo, then I saw it. It stopped outside the Kelly place.
‘Yoo-hoo!’ Mrs Kelly called. She beckoned to Mr Kelly, looked at Dad and nodded twice, as if to say that Mr Kelly
would soon deal with Fat Norman.
I hoped he would. I was scared Fat Norman would say when he first got the idea Sam Phelps might have done something bad. I didn’t want to be brought into their argument, I didn’t want them to think of me, I didn’t want to be noticed. Even while I was hoping I’d be left out of it, though, I was thinking that Fat Norman certainly was dopey. No wonder Bruce didn’t seem to like him. Making all that fuss because Bruce had ridden Sydney Bridge Upside Down! What would he say if he knew Bruce was on the wharf now, fishing there with Dibs and Cal? Probably turn maniacal.
I saw Mr Kelly reach the others. ‘I was coming along, anyway,’ he said. ‘Picked this up at the store, Frank.’ He handed Dad a letter.
‘The meat was there too, was it?’ asked Mrs Kelly. When Mr Kelly nodded, she told Fat Norman: ‘We can never be sure about the deliveries now. It was different when we had Mr Wiggins. He was always so regular.’
I saw Dad frowning at the envelope before he put it in the back pocket of his pants; he hadn’t read the letter.
Mr Kelly turned. ‘I’ll take the meat in,’ he said.
‘Come here!’ Mrs Kelly said. ‘Do you know what Mr Norman’s saying about Sam Phelps? Go on, Mr Norman, tell my husband what you think of Sam Phelps.’
‘All I said—’ Fat Norman said.
‘He wants us to lynch Mr Phelps,’ said Mrs Kelly.
‘Nonsense,’ said Fat Norman. ‘All I said was I don’t want him hanging round my children. I don’t trust old men like him.’
‘Sam wouldn’t look so old if he shaved more often, spruced himself up,’ said Mr Kelly. ‘He doesn’t think it matters. I can see his point of view.’
‘Fancy suggesting he’s an evil man!’ said Mrs Kelly, looking scornfully at Fat Norman.
‘No harm in Sam,’ Mr Kelly said. ‘Minds his own business.’
‘Well, I can see you’re all on his side,’ Fat Norman said. ‘But you don’t blame me, do you? You don’t blame me for being concerned about my children?’
‘We understand that,’ said Mrs Kelly. ‘You shouldn’t slanderise him, though. You must be careful what you say.’
‘Very well,’ said Fat Norman. ‘I’ll accept that he’s a nice, normal old fellow—or not-so-old fellow. But I reserve the right to tell him to stay away from my children. Is that reasonable enough?’
‘I still don’t know what you have against Sam,’ said Mr Kelly, who had taken out his tobacco tin and was rolling himself a smoke. He licked the cigarette paper. ‘What’s he done, eh?’
‘Oh, he reckons—’ Mrs Kelly began.
‘No, let him tell me,’ said Mr Kelly. He lit his cigarette, looked calmly at Fat Norman.
‘Specifically, he gave my son a ride on his horse yesterday,’ Fat Norman told Mr Kelly. ‘Wait!’ he said as Mr Kelly took the cigarette from his mouth to speak. ‘I admit that ordinarily I wouldn’t mind if Bruce rode somebody else’s horse. I know he is very fond of horses. But I believe that recluses like your Mr Phelps are often—well, a little
peculiar. We can’t be sure what form this peculiarity will take. No, no, I’m not saying Phelps
is
peculiar! I’m talking of men like him. You look sceptical, Mr Kelly. But don’t you think it’s a
little
peculiar how he stands on the road looking at the houses? Why does he do that? And what about the accidents at the works? I gather he found the Prosser girl’s body. He also found Wiggins’ body. Now isn’t that a
little
peculiar? Two people die in mysterious circumstances, and Phelps is involved on both occasions—’
‘Now hold on!’ Mr Kelly shouted. ‘Just a minute!’ He looked at Dad. ‘This is getting serious, Frank. What do you reckon? How do we handle this fellow?’
I saw Dad look from Mr Kelly to Fat Norman, then to Mrs Kelly. Mrs Kelly was deep purple and speechless.
‘I don’t know what he’s driving at,’ Dad told Mr Kelly. ‘What have those accidents to do with Sam? Sam only found the bodies.’ He frowned at Fat Norman. ‘What are you driving at, Mr Norman?’
Now Fat Norman looked rather scared. ‘Please don’t misunderstand me,’ he said. ‘I’m simply suggesting—’
‘What have the works got to do with Sam Phelps?’ Mr Kelly asked him. ‘Are you worried about the works, Mr Norman? Is that why you’re having these queer thoughts? Don’t worry about the works. They’ll be pulled down next week. Bill Dobson and his lads start first thing on Monday. Does that make you feel better, Mr Norman?’
Mrs Kelly found her voice. ‘What a cheek saying Mr Phelps is peculiar! I know who’s peculiar around here!’ She glared at Fat Norman, then walked away. I heard her shout: ‘I know who’s peculiar!’
‘Well, what do you say, Mr Norman?’ asked Mr Kelly.
I did not wait to hear what Fat Norman said. I got back under the bed. I curled up under there, my hands over my ears to make sure I heard nothing the men said. They had said enough to make me shake and sweat. Especially Fat Norman and his talk of mysterious circumstances. Heck, the policeman from Bonnie Brae hadn’t thought there were mysterious circumstances, so why should Fat Norman try to cause trouble? I knew that whatever Dad and Mr Kelly said to him, however much they went on about Mr Phelps being a good fellow, Fat Norman would still think he knew better. And sooner or later he would call on Mr Phelps and go over all the dopey things he had already gone over with Dad and Mr Kelly. I didn’t think Sam Phelps would say why he waited on the road, but I couldn’t be sure; there was no telling what he would say if Fat Norman made him angry enough. He might even say
I
was the one Fat Norman should be worrying about,
I
might be dragged into their damned argument. I wished Mr Dalloway had never left Calliope Bay; he was certainly better than a trouble-maker like Fat Norman.
I tried to forget Fat Norman by thinking of what else Mr Kelly had said. He had said the works would be pulled down next week. Of course, I’d already heard Dad say they would be pulled down, but I hadn’t realised it would be so soon. Calliope Bay would seem strange without the works. Ever since I was a small kid I had played there, I had looked down from the top floor, I had hidden there. I could not believe that one day soon there would be no works to go
to. They couldn’t pull down the works, surely there was somebody who could stop them—
I heard a motor-bike. Even with my hands over my ears, I could hear the Indian.
I crawled out again and went to the blind. I peeped. Buster was parking the Indian. Now he was walking to our house. He was smiling and pointing to our front door.
Caroline must be looking from her window, there was nobody else Buster could be smiling at; Dad and the other two men had gone.
Yes, I heard Caroline’s footsteps, I heard the front door being opened, I heard their voices. I did not want to listen; I put my hands over my ears.
Back under the bed, I wondered if Dad and Mr Kelly had got Fat Norman to stop being dopey. Maybe they were all at Mr Kelly’s place, drinking beer. Or maybe Fat Norman had apologised for being so dopey and had invited Dad and Mr Kelly to his place. Maybe everything was okay again.
It was dusty under the bed. Dad usually gave the house a sweep-out on Sundays, and sometimes I went round with the broom before school, but neither of us was much good at reaching under the beds, some of the dust under this bed had probably been here for as long as my mother had been away. I should be out in the sun, I only got gloomy under the bed, I kept waiting for somebody to call for me, I expected the Bonnie Brae policeman to arrive at any moment and say he had discovered my secret. If I were at the wharf, fishing with Cal and Dibs and Bruce, I would not think about the policeman. These days, though, I
could not be bothered with Cal and Dibs and Bruce; they seemed too young, too ignorant. I no longer got excited about the same things as they did. Like the pistol. Dibs reckoned he had worked out who was the only person who could possibly have stolen the pistol. There had been no strangers at the bay, no tramps, no visitors from places like Bonnie Brae, he said. So the thief must be somebody who lived in the bay, and the only person likely to know about the cave was Sam Phelps. What did I think of that for an idea? I said I didn’t care. Would I care, he asked, if he sneaked into Mr Phelps’ shack and looked for the pistol? No, I said, I wouldn’t care, the pistol could stay stolen for all I cared. It was the same with the other things he talked about. I was not interested. Until, in the end, he gave up talking to me. He concentrated on Cal and Bruce. And I got under the bed.
Maybe it was not so much the other kids as the bay itself. I was tired of Calliope Bay. So was Dad. I agreed with Dad when he said after tea one night that it would be easier for everybody in the family if we lived in Bonnie Brae. He said Cal and I would get better schooling at Bonnie Brae, he didn’t think Mr Norman was all that hot as a teacher, seemed too jumpy to be a good teacher. He said he could easily get a good job in Bonnie Brae and would not have to ride miles to work. He also said, lowering his voice and looking at Caroline, that my mother would prefer Bonnie Brae to Calliope Bay. He said she had often complained about the loneliness of Calliope Bay, had often said it would be nice to be able to pop down to the shops when she felt like it. When she got back from the city,
said Dad, he would talk it over with her; in fact, he would not wait for her to get back, he would write to her about it. That was a good plan, I said; we would have more fun in Bonnie Brae. He laughed and said he would write the letter straight away.