Black Diamonds (35 page)

Forlorn to break your heart. Maybe he's still drowsy from the ether this morning, or some sedative; he'll be better tomorrow.

Sort of. Monday morning, and I've almost got him ready, buttoning his shirt, thinking, fortunate you prefer a generous cut across the shoulders or we'd never get this round you, when I remember.

‘Your shirts. I haven't picked them up.' From the tailor on George Street in town; Father's old tailor, who does a proper job, though I don't think he does too many collarless jobs sans matching collar these days. That's what Daniel wears, however, plain white cotton and no collar, like a protest against fashion, any fashion, and gentleman tailor far too professional to question this lady's order of four of them in finest fabric. Lady too sensible to mention cost to gentleman, too; instead, I told Daniel that this lot would last for centuries. And they will.

He says now: ‘I'd rather go straight home.'

‘I know.' He'd rather hibernate and wake up without Uncomfortable Heavy Thing. ‘But what's five minutes in a five-hour trip?'

‘Five more minutes,' he says, terse.

This'll be a fun trip, won't it. Would you like me to put you on the fast train? Don't say anything, Francy: just pack his bag and get going.

I'm hunting for Almighty Toothbrush when Doctor Adinov puts his head around the door. ‘Fifty-two days to think about it now, Daniel.'

Daniel?
They're chummy?

Daniel says: ‘Yep.'

Doctor waves goodbye: ‘Safe journey.'

Daniel: ‘Yep.'

Doctor bows slightly to me: ‘Mrs Ackerman,' and he's gone.

‘What was that about fifty-two days?' I ask Daniel.

Grunt: ‘Tell you later.'

Right: ‘Are you going to be this cranky the whole time?'

‘No. Sorry. I'm just …' then he smiles. ‘Cranky.'

Rub it in: ‘Well, just remember, darlingest, cranky kids get castor oil for supper.'

And he's still chuckling at that as we hit the sunshine outside.

Kids waiting in the car not chuckling, though.

Charlie, aghast: ‘Oh, Uncle Daniel, where's your arm gone?'

Kathryn, blanched: ‘Charles Robin, you shush.'

Daniel says: ‘Don't worry, I've still got it. Somewhere under this.' And knocks on his shoulder.

Harry's looking away, pretending he's not here, but he's so pink-cheeked that when he glances at Daniel lowering himself into the front seat, he looks as if he'll burst.

Kathryn doesn't appear much further off bursting either. She looks positively slapped. But for a different reason, I've suddenly seen. She's not a kiddo any more, and profound concern for uncle is perhaps not only another burden of the war and the awfulness it's brought her: she
adores
adores him. Can't blame her there. Goodness me, I'm a breath off slapped too, just looking at her. Stop that: concoct diversion immediately.

I say: ‘Daniel. It's just occurred to me that we haven't got a present for your mother or Miriam.'

He looks at me:
so what?

Persist: ‘Since we have to stop in town on the way, Kathryn and I can pop into David Jones, get some little somethings.'

He says: ‘I think we've spent enough money lately, Francine.'

‘We won't spend much.' As if we can't afford it.

Frown: ‘What am I supposed to do while you're at it? Sit in the car and fry?'

Masterstroke: ‘You can sit under a tree in Hyde Park, with the boys. They'll look after you. We won't be long: straight in and out.'

‘Do I have a choice?'

‘No.' But if I look at the pout a second longer, I'll have to be very unmindful of the children and lean hard on the pedal for home to put you straight to bed.

 

DANIEL

Charlie's still rabbiting on about Aunty France's top shot yesterday. ‘You should have seen her,' he's saying, but over the last half-hour he's already given a blow-by-blow account detailed enough that I may as well have been there. ‘Never seen a lady shout out like that, or a girl; never seen anyone do anything like that. And the man was so rotten — he called Aunty France a troublemaker and brought the police. Just for a bit of ice cream. If it was me I wouldn't have wasted my ice cream. But she stood up to him.' Here we go again.

And Harry's wandering off along the path towards the street, not because he's had an earful, I don't think. He is as impressed by France as anyone is, if you're looking.

‘Oi, come back here,' I tell him. He doubles back. I tell Charlie to pipe down and go chase the pigeons away from the bubbler for a while. Then I sit there, looking at Harry as he scrapes the side of his boot against the gravelly dirt of the path, determined not to look up. If he could give me a wider berth he'd be in Queensland. I say: ‘Stop doing that, you'll wreck the leather.' He stops. Still staring at the dirt. Try again: dredge up a memory of not talking to Dad for weeks after breaking a window and getting belted for saying it was an accident. It was an accident, but as far as Dad was concerned carelessness at sling-shooting magpies off the roof did not make an accident: an accident is what happens when you have no control over events. He had a point, but this little Harry has no idea of the difference: that he didn't have control, and that that's more than forgivable, considering.

‘Sit down,' I say, and can just reach to pull him by the shirt sleeve onto the bench beside me; he doesn't resist. My hand on his shoulder, I can feel the too-big bones under his skin; he's all bones and little else; little boy growing very fast. ‘You can't keep this up forever, mate. Believe me.'

He says: ‘I won't. Keep it up, I mean.' Looking at his knees.

He used to be the first kid to take a running jump at me; fling himself at me to get thrown higher. I touch the back of his head to feel my own paintbrush hair, and he curls against me. To clock his forehead right on the edge of the cast.

‘Awch,' he says, rubbing his head. Looks up at me. And he doesn't fail me now: he starts laughing like it's going out of fashion.

Charlie wheels back and says: ‘What's so funny?'

‘You, you goose,' Harry says.

Champion. Both of them.

Charlie says, patting around my chest to find my arm: ‘Geewhizz. Wowee. So are you going to get a good scar out of this too?'

I tell him: ‘Best one yet: looks like I've been bitten by a giant snake.'

‘Really? When can I see it? Bet it's not as good as the one on your leg. Never seen a scar as good as that one …'

Here we go again. And he might as well keep going: no sign of France and Kathryn. They've obviously been detained by David Jones, and I'm not sure that France is pleading for quick release.

 

FRANCINE

As if the deferential doorman, the swish hydraulic lift, the plush velveteen chairs and long marble-topped tables weren't enough of a giggle, in which we indulge at first with our eyes and then quite openly, the camisoles we're shown are too exquisite. I want her to have all of them. It's funny to think I used to take all this for granted; stranger still to realise I haven't missed it. Funniest of all is that although these days I might know more about motor mechanics than my husband does, there's enough Rose Bay left in this little engine for me to be as swept up as the young lady beside me on the velveteen.

Kathryn says, scandalised murmur: ‘I can't choose.'

Neither can I. There's a ban on luxury goods now, but not, apparently, when it comes to feminine undergarments. Let's be scientific and mindful of the fact that although we've left Uncle Daniel in the shade, it's already a very warm day out there. Kathryn, with her thick dark hair and fire-brown eyes like Sarah's, is not suited to absolute plains, but fairly plain it has to be at nearly twelve. ‘This one,' I say: it's broderie, with a slim ribbon at the waist and a tiny beige butterfly beneath the centre of the subtle V neckline. Perfect, in prettiness and purpose: to acknowledge her growing up. She thinks so too, and now it's her pleasure to choose something for her mum and grandma. Mim needs new gloves and her daughter picks a palest blue-grey pair with a single pearl shell button at the wrist. Grandma doesn't need anything, never does, so she gets something completely frivolous: three of the most divine lace handkerchiefs known to woman, which she'll put in a drawer and never use, but love anyway.

Done. Remind the saleslady we're in a hurry, so please package up at speed. Bolt off back to ground floor for scribbling journal I've decided is another essential for young lady. There really is only one choice there: it's bound in mauve kidskin impressed with a border of daisy chain. ‘You have to have that one,' I say to her. ‘That is a journal for some very high thoughts, hm?'

She says, in her soft clear voice: ‘My thoughts are plainer than that.'

I say: ‘Even better. Celebrate the contradiction. Done?'

She giggles; loveliest sound. ‘Done.'

‘Anything else? Let's give ourselves two more minutes' shopping frenzy.'

‘There is something else I'd like.'

‘Excellent. What?'

‘A haircut like yours.'

Good God. Not on your life. I say: ‘I doubt your mother would approve of that.'

‘I know,' she says, and I see she's having a laugh, with me. She adds: ‘But I will, when I'm older, have a haircut just like yours. I think it looks elegant, and different.'

Throat closes over. You couldn't buy that, could you? ‘Yes, I'm sure you will. Meantime, how cross do you think your uncle is by now?'

‘Fairly cross,' she nods.

‘Let's get cracking, shall we?'

Bolt through payments and packaging and back out onto the footpath. Fly into and out of tailor's, then dodge through the traffic along Market Street back up to the park.

But Daniel's not cross at all; asks when he sees us: ‘Released without charge or out on bail?' Smiling as he heaves himself up; sun in his eyes, makes me want to fall into them. And Harry's smiling too: well done, Uncle.

‘Charged,' I say,' but released on grounds of good character.'

‘Judge must have been drunk. That looks like a lot of charge, France.' Raising an eyebrow at the packages as we all head for the car.

Kathryn's blushing now. For heaven's sake. I say: ‘Anyone would think you were mean, Mr Frugal.'

Pout: ‘I'm not mean. We just probably shouldn't be spending so much. ‘And he's serious.

‘Why?'

‘Tell you later,' he says.

And that's two
tell you laters
I have now to keep my imagination busy on the long drive home. Fifty-two days to think about it, shouldn't be spending money, and chummy with Russian surgeon. No, completely baffled.

 

DANIEL

‘Shush.' France is shoving me awake. ‘Snoring.'

I know, I know. And I know how very, very irritating it is to sleep next to a snorer. Only six days left of this, for me and poor France. Doesn't matter what I do, I usually end up snoring; you're just not meant to sleep on your back holding a slab of cement. And lately when I wake up like this or she wakes me up I remember Anderson, Keith Anderson, and know that his wife and sons would give anything to hear him snoring. Float away from it; it was an accident, not even Fritz intended it, but I still don't know if I believe it was an accident or my fault.

Force myself to think of other things, what I do know, what I can control. What I want to do. I start ticking off the plans we've made for the Wattle and balancing them against the fact that however you look at it underground mining is probably second only to warfare in filth and risk. No revolution or truce will change that. Accident waiting to happen. The Wattle's had three in the last twelve months, requiring a doctor, none too serious: that's pretty good. But that's lucky. Somewhere along the line something out of control will happen again. It's a matter of being properly prepared, for it and against it, and of me going back to work to take responsibility for it, whether we can buy out Drummond or not.

France groans now: ‘Go back to sleep.' She reckons she can hear the wheels turning.

But I can't go back to sleep, I'll only start snoring again. So I just lie here and look at her instead in the dark. That's not hard; I can do that for very long stretches. She's four or five months pregnant now and it's showing all over her. There's no way I can describe what I feel about that. When she gets dressed in the morning and I see her body, rounder and smoother and softer everywhere, it's not an image I'm looking at, it's the whole incomprehensible privilege of seeing her. How do you paint that? Worth every second of this spell of uselessness to be able to wonder about it, watch her every day, except that I'd prefer to be of more use to her. She's half asleep half the time, and not just because I keep waking her up; she's heavier and looks further along than she's supposed to, apparently. Mrs Moran said straight off that France's going to have twins this time, and Nichols agreed, reckons he definitely heard two little heartbeats in there, and he told me our timing is good this time, since I'll be back on board when she should be taking it easy. And he said I should insist she does, because it's important she doesn't do anything that might make the babies come too early. That thought sets the wheels turning in me again. Twins. Jesus.

And I've woken her up properly now.

There's the whistle; dawn soon anyway.

‘Uxorious,' she says,
exasperated
kitten, snuggling against my left shoulder and I would very much like to rip my other arm free so I can hold her properly. In six days' time I will. A spell of gentle exercise before I start doing everything for her.

She's taken to calling me Uxorious I, Cranky King of Uxor and Benevolent Dictator of Wattle Dell. She's the best lark, dreamy half-asleep lark. I had no idea what uxorious meant when she first said it a few weeks ago. It means foolish wife-lover, from the Latin
uxor
for wife. That's me, except I don't feel like any kind of fool for it. She said it's the ugliest word for the most precious thing, and I said no, you can't beat
frau
for that.

Danny wakes up in the next room: ‘Mummm, Mummmaa.' He'll come tearing in in a tick.

France yawns as she sits up, snorting a laugh through it. How could you not be uxorious?