Yesterday's Dust (28 page)

And he'd read:

Daddy went to Narawee to get his Liza and get me
but he cort her in the sella playing with the derty fella
when he tryd
to kill him ded, he got Liza's head insted
so he put his golden trezzur with the flowers to bloom for ever.

May knew. Annie knew. Now Johnny knew.

‘Where is it?' That night the murdering bastard had dragged Johnny into the grain shed. ‘Where is it? What did you do with the ring?' He'd taken off his belt, white with fear or rage, and he'd used his belt.

It hadn't got him what he'd wanted.

‘You killed him. You brought him up here in the car boot and you burned him out at the dunes. You killed Liza too? Where did you burn her?'

‘You don't know anything about it. You don't know a bloody thing about it.'

‘It's your fault that Annie has gone like she is too. You'd better kill me too, because if you don't I'm telling Constable Johnson.'

‘Then tell him, you disloyal little bastard,
and see if I care.'

But John Fletcher was sick. He was in hospital. And Johnny's head was on fire. He thought he had encephalitis. Thought he was going to die. Ellie fed him aspros and told him he was delirious when he spoke of Uncle Sam and Liza's murder.

Then John Fletcher died. And Johnny cried.

Couldn't talk. Not to Annie. Not to Ben. Couldn't talk. Not to his mother. Couldn't talk to Bessy.
Decided to do an Annie. Never open his mouth again. Couldn't think. Couldn't sleep. The encephalitis germ hadn't killed him, just killed his mind. For a month he didn't go to school. Spent his days planning, walking, planning. Spent his nights fighting his father. Spent his nights sharpening the axe, honing the carving knife.

Then that last day. His father drunk, taunting Annie, showing her
photographs from Narrawee.

Annie screaming.

‘If you can scream, you can talk, you shamming little bitch. Talk to me. Talk.'

Ellie screaming at him to stop.

‘Talk to me. I don't need any more bloody guilt.'

Johnny's mind eaten away. Only red inside now. Only hate and fear and his own guilt. He'd picked up the old black poker. Used his father's head as a golf ball. He'd finish the screaming.

Tried to finish what he'd begun too, but Ellie wouldn't let him. She'd fought him for the poker, and he couldn't fight her. His fight wasn't with her.

For the love of God, Johnny. What's wrong with you lately?

He killed Liza, Mum. He killed Uncle Sam.

You dreamt it. You were sick. You're acting like a crazy boy lately. You don't know what you're doing any more.

He killed them, Mum, and Annie
knows it. I could prove it to you if I could find her tin.

Little Annie, standing, head-butting the wall. Little Annie, crying soundlessly. Little Annie's golden syrup tin gone now from the fibre cave of willow roots. Sam's ring, gone with it.

If you keep on like this, they'll put you away, Johnny
.

He killed them, Mum, and Annie knows it. That's what's wrong with her.

You've got to get away
from here, or someone is going to die. You've got to go, Johnny
.

And he'd gone. Almost sixteen. He'd gone, Annie on his heels.

I love Johnny. I come.
Little hands signing.

Go back, Annie.

Little legs running.
Go away far. We take bad ring. Go far over sunset
.

And she'd given him Sam's ring, warm from her hot little hand.

He'd hailed down a truck; it had taken him south, where he'd wandered,
picked fruit, worked for a week or two then wandered again, sleeping rough but staying close to home and to Annie.

He was going to go back. He had the ring. He was going to go back. When he was big enough. Never big enough. That was the trouble.

Then one morning he'd looked in the mirror to see if he was big enough and he'd seen the bastard staring back at him. And that evening, he'd drunk two
bottles of beer and he'd become the bastard. That was the day he'd started running from himself, and he'd ended up in Brisbane, cold, hungry, lonely. He'd crept into a church, slept the night on a polished pew. Next morning a young priest found the dishevelled, broken boy, no soles in his shoes. Soulless.

The long black garb had covered this man. Only the face. Only the hands. Face bland. Hands
clean.

How do I become a priest, Father?

Have you eaten recently, lad?

The old building, a classic from last century, sun glinting on coloured windows, high up, untouched by the filth outside. A priest might live, breathe, move within this clean and perfect world, that reality could not violate.

Outside, outside of this place . . .

Johnny had not wanted to step outside again. To be his father's
son again.

How can I learn to be a priest, Father?

Do you have parents, family to support you?

I want to be a priest.

Breakfast, perhaps, and a shower, a change of clothes. Then we'll talk about it.

The church had paid for a haircut. The church had given him clean clothing, and shoes. He had not given the church his name, but he'd found work in a supermarket, and at night he'd sat again in
a classroom, lost in his books, hiding in his books.

He'd completed form five, and packed shelves, waited tables for a second year, made hamburgers in the school holidays, mowed lawns. And when the results of his final exams came out, and his name had been amongst the top ten in the state, he'd returned to that church and handed the priest his results.

How do I become a priest, Father?

The
Catholic church claimed him that day. It guided him, paid his way, filled the empty hole in his life. It allowed him to hide from self, to cover self beneath the black garments of anonymity. But the garments were gone now. Only a maroon sweater and blue jeans, a striped grey and white shirt. Only one casual shoe and a black sock to cover his plaster.

What now, Johnny Burton? What now?

So the
seasons altered once more. September's page on the
BURTON AND DOOLEY EMPORIUM
calendar, a fluffy kitten, its mouth open in a yawn, gave way to a basket full of puppies. The paddocks were green, and the lambs fat, the cows were heavy with milk while their new calves nibbled grass and sucked mush from buckets, memories of the warm teat and the suck of bliss only a dream now.

Ms Glen White came
to the school on that Monday morning in September, a new broom sweeping clean, but she left two weeks later, on the day the September school holidays began. She had three growing daughters to consider, and she didn't consider Mallawindy worth considering as a long-term situation.

Got out fast. Ran before the removalists had time to move in her furniture. Packed her case and skedaddled home to
Mum and her girls.

So the old school residence remained empty, and when the nights grew warm, the town youths came with their girls and their spray cans. Newly painted walls made a fine canvas for graffiti, and on the new floor covering, placed down for Ms Glen White and her girls, Jeff Rowan found condoms and worse.

‘Drug problem in Mallawindy' the Daree
Gazette
reported. Jeff Rowan was not
yet ready to allow his tiny town to disappear again into dusty anonymity.

Saturday 18 October

A sometimes gentle month, October, summer in waiting, gathering her heat in readiness to scorch the land. But not yet, not today.

May and Jack had left Daree at seven-thirty. They'd be in Narrawee by mid-afternoon.

‘That's a nice looking property.' May sat in the passenger seat watching the land skimming by.

‘Yeah.'
A fourth-generation landowner, Jack was no farmer. Land was land was land, and bulls were the raw material of roast beef. May ran the two properties, her own, Hargraves Park, and Narrawee, giving orders to her manager as one born to it. Jack was the tail that wagged behind her, but a more relaxed tail today. Christmas was now visible on the horizon; the year had begun to move again. Only two and
a half months and black Jack would be dead.

For thirty years now he'd signed his
S J Burton
beside May's signature. Nothing would alter.

His mother had taught both him and Sam their early letters; they'd had a similar hand and it hadn't been difficult to forge his brother's signature. Just painful. It was still painful, but there wasn't a lot he could do about that pain.

As a boy he'd believed
that one day the Narrawee property would belong to him. That dream had died the day of his father's funeral. Narrawee had been willed to Sam, then to the children of Sam. The property would only fall into the hands of Jack should his brother die without issue. And Sam had died without issue, died by
his brother's hand, and like the stinking corpse of an animal, he'd been burned to prevent the
spread of his obscene disease.

May was also thinking about Sam, her mind wandering forbidden places as she watched the land glide by. Liza and Sam. Sam and Liza. Nightmare day of screaming and madness.

Sam had raped his seven-year-old niece. Had she called in the police, a jury may very well have found Jack innocent of his brother's murder. Perhaps his name might have one day been on the title
to Narrawee. What father would not have done what Jack had done that day? What madness had taken possession of her mind, and why, in God's name, had she not seen that dark side of her husband?

But her marriage had not been as most. Nine hours after she'd walked down the aisle to her handsome Sam, she'd learned that he had no desire to share her bed, though he'd sat on it for hours attempting
to explain his feelings.

‘You're my little sister, a cherished sister, May. I can't . . .'

Nineteen at the time, and an innocent nineteen, her wedding night spent at a Melbourne hotel, a slow boat waiting to take the happy couple to England in the morning. What was she supposed to do? What was she supposed to feel? Her mother dead for five years, her father in his seventies, her friends envious
– no one in the world with whom she could discuss sex, or the lack of it.

She hadn't wept or argued. She'd sat on the bed beside him, looking at her new wedding band. Hadn't asked why he had married her. She knew why. Two power-crazed old men had wanted that marriage for years. It would join not only the two oldest families, but the properties, Narrawee and Hargraves Park.

And what a property
to own.

Since her eighth birthday she'd wanted to live in that white stone mansion, to be the queen of Narrawee. At ten she'd planned to marry both Burton boys. At thirteen she'd decided to marry Jack, but he hadn't waited around for her to grow up. Sam had waited.

That day of magic. That wedding gown. That magic night of
dancing in her new husband's arms. Sam had been a wonderful dancer. And
the drive to the hotel and her white virginal nightgown with its blue ribbon threaded through lace and her fearful expectations unrealised. Perhaps she felt relief.

‘That's okay,' she had said to him. ‘I feel a bit the same way tonight.'

‘We can have a wonderful life, May.'

‘Yes. Yes. We will.'

What else could she say? She certainly wasn't going to run home to her father, face her friends
and the town and Sam's father, who Jack had always named John the Bastard, and rightly so. Her pride, fear of her father-in-law, would not allow it. Anyway, Sam would probably change his mind once they were far from that domineering old man.

Of course he would.

So they'd steamed away on what was to become the most wonderful holiday of her life. The sights she'd seen, the places she had been,
dancing each night with Sam, so close to him. But when they returned to their cabin, Sam slipped into the top bunk and she into her own. He was the most handsome man on the boat, good company, intelligent; what more did she want? As the months passed she found she did want more, and found herself remembering Jack's vindictive words on the morning of her wedding: ‘He's a perverted bastard, May. Run
while you still can.'

On their return to Narrawee, she and Sam had slept in separate rooms; John the bastard had his say about that. May claimed it was her choice and Sam had shown such gratitude.

He was a thoughtful partner during those first years. They'd travelled and both loved the theatre; he'd bought her extravagant gifts and when they were in public, he'd introduced her as his queen of
Camelot, but in private he suggested they have separate relationships.

‘No,' she'd said. She'd begun to watch him then. Watching his every move became her obsession. She watched him when he was with other women – and with men.

A child of the thirties, a teenager of the forties, May had certainly heard the words applied to men who were assumed to be less than men; in what way they were less,
she did not know. Sex, natural or perverted, was not discussed in respectable circles, and she dared not visit the local library and ask to borrow a book on the subject.

She hadn't seen Jack in three years, then one afternoon he'd turned up in a taxi, with no money to pay the driver. John, the bastard, had refused to pay, but May had her own money, her own property too; she'd buried her father
that Christmas. She had paid for the taxi, made lunch for Jack, so pleased to see him, so much to talk about.

‘No kids yet, May?' he'd said.

‘Sam isn't ready.' That was her stock answer for those who asked that question.

‘He was ready for kids at sixteen,' Jack had stated, his eyes holding her own.

She hadn't understood his words, but she'd looked away from those all-seeing eyes, and down
to her wedding ring. For no logical reason her eyes had spilled over. And he'd kissed her, not a brotherly kiss either. It had set free a flood of emotions and a torrent of tears and words. She'd told him that she was a married woman only in name.

‘You must have known what you were getting yourself into, you silly little bugger. He's a bent bastard and always has been. The only reason he wanted
you was for a cover. May Hargraves, proof of Saint Sam's unquestionable respectability. That's all you are to him, May, a pretty little cover. I warned you.'

‘Stop it, Jack. He's not like that. He's not . . . not – '

‘The old man might be a bastard but he's not stupid. Go and tell him you're a virgin, three years wed. See what he thinks his precious son is.'

Should have. But she hadn't. Why?

Because the golden band Sam had placed on her finger had made her mistress of Narrawee. It had given her freedom. Mrs Sam
Burton could work in the paddocks with the men. Mrs Sam Burton could learn all there was to know about this land. She lived a life unknown to her married friends. Many were the nights she slept in her old room, and many the days spent at the side of the man she had hired to
manage her land.

Mrs Sam Burton dealt with the Narrawee workers too – sacked one on the spot one day because he had dared to put his hand on her.

Twenty-three at the time, and he a handsome thirty. Robin Crane. She would never forget his name. Too attractive, and she had been attracted; Sam had employed him. In hindsight May believed he'd handpicked Robin to father a child. Sam wanted her to
bear a child if only to silence his father's questions.

‘Get your things and get off my land,' she'd said to Robin Crane that morning.

‘Sam might have something to say about that, May.'

‘My name is Mrs Burton to you. Now get off my land.'

He'd gone, and thereafter not one of the workers had called her May. She'd shown them all that day. She'd shown Sam too that she was more than Narrawee breeding
stock put to stud with a passing bull. And when John, the bastard, desperate to see a child of the marriage, called in his own doctor to examine her, she'd refused to submit.

‘Look to your precious son,' she'd said – and suffered for that remark until the womanising old swine had died in 1960.

That was when the rot had set in. She'd believed that Jack and his shy Ellie would move back to Narrawee
with their children – children she might share – but the old man had got in his last hit from the grave. He'd altered his will, left the property to Sam.

‘I want a divorce – or an annulment, Sam. He's dead, and I'll no longer continue with this farce. I want a normal marriage. I want children.'

‘As I've said many times, May, your children will be my children. They'll inherit this land.'

‘No,'
she'd said. ‘No. My children will be my husband's. I want
a divorce.'

He'd gone to the solicitors that day and he'd put the property into joint names. She'd considered it a bribe, and told him so.

Time proved it a necessity. With access to unlimited cash, Sam purchased the flat in Toorak; he'd spent weeks there, leaving May and his new manager to run the property, leaving May to sign the cheques.
He'd flown overseas alone, spent months in Queensland.

May assumed he'd gone off to be with other women. Then, on a rare trip to Toorak, she'd finally met one of his male friends, a vile creature who had raised the hackles on her neck. And a girl, a waif of nine or ten. Her eyes had made May's heart ache.

‘The child,' she said when the two had driven away. ‘Who was that child, Sam?'

‘Dennis's
wife's niece. She adores him.'

‘Does she?'

‘Dennis is like a father to her. What are you suggesting now, May?'

‘God knows,' she said. ‘God only knows. The little girl looked so afraid.'

‘Her mother died recently. Dennis and his wife are considering adoption. We should consider it, May. You know I want a family.'

‘I don't . . . no,' she'd said. ‘No.'

‘We have so much love to give, we have
the money. We could give a child a wonderful life.'

‘I don't know.'

It was not until Ann and Liza had come to stay that May had begun to see Sam as a father. He'd taken the girls riding, he'd bought them a pony, spent his days with them, read them stories each night in bed.

He was a good man, and so gentle with the girls. Liza loved him, she followed him around like a little puppy.

Then came
that night, Ann and Liza tucked into their bed, when May had raised the subject of children. ‘You would make a wonderful father, Sam. We could have our own. There are . . . there are
. . . ways. There are doctors who could . . . help us conceive our own child. I don't want to raise some little stranger. I want a little girl who looks like Ann Elizabeth, a son like Johnny; Burtons, Sam, Burtons
for Narrawee. If I were to make an appointment in Melbourne, would you at least consider it?'

What a fool. What a gullible fool she had been. Not until the day of his death had she known the brand of Sam's love of children. Not until after his death had she understood fully.

Ann comatose in hospital, May and Jack had made their base in Toorak and spent hours each day beside Ann's bed. May had
been alone at the flat when the innocuous brown envelope was delivered. She had opened it and removed a magazine.

Pages of children and unspeakable perversions.

She'd vomited on the page, and the guilt she'd felt at the part she'd played in concealing her husband's death had been washed clean away by the vomit. She forgave herself that day, and forgave Jack his every past sin, his every future
sin, and she'd begged for his forgiveness. That night she had crawled into his bed. In her mid-thirties, he was her first and not so gentle lover, but she forgave him that too, and she held him inside her praying that a child might come out of desperation.

They made love often after that night, gaining courage from each other to face the new day of questions.

Jack had been born for the stage.
He'd screamed abuse at her in front of the children's hospital one day while television cameras rolled. He'd threatened to kill his brother, naming him a protector of perverts. He'd cursed May for employing the Englishman they'd accused of stealing Liza away. The next day he'd played the gentle Sam in his greying wig and moustache, seated at her side, his hand on her shoulder, protecting her while
they spoke to the same television crew.