Time's Long Ruin (14 page)

‘Yes,' I said, coming clean, ‘I did throw the lemon, but I was provoked.'

‘Was not,' Andrew countered.

‘Was.'

Andrew's dad was a big man. He wore a blue shirt with the sleeves torn off just below the shoulders and his skin was the colour of someone who worked outdoors. He had a tattoo of a woman with the name Ruby on an unfurling scroll, and I was dying to tell Dad that Andrew's mum's name was Susan. He wore too-tight shorts that strangled his steel-girder legs and a pair of thongs that had worn paper-thin. He looked at his son and said, ‘Well, what did you say?'

‘Nothin'.'

And then he whacked him across the back of the head. ‘What did you say?'

‘Asked him about his lemonade.'

‘What lemonade?'

‘He was sellin' it, up there,' he replied, pointing.

‘You weren't just asking,' I said, looking at Andrew.

‘Was.'

‘Weren't.'

Andrew's dad's face tightened. He turned his body to face his son. ‘What did you say?'

Andrew shrugged. ‘Nothin'.'

He grabbed his son by the arm and shook him. ‘What?' He lifted his hand to the boy and Dad stepped forward. ‘Listen, whatever was said, it doesn't matter. Henry shouldn't have thrown the lemon, should you?'

Everyone looked at me.

‘No.'

‘And he won't do it again, will you?'

‘No.'

‘And what are you going to say to Andrew?'

I hesitated. ‘He said things about Mum.'

Dad was taken aback. He paused but then eventually repeated, ‘What are you going to say to Andrew?'

‘Sorry.'

Dad pointed to Andrew's bandaged head. ‘There's an artery there, the main one to the brain. A bit harder, or a bit further over . . .' He stared at me. I sighed. ‘Sorry, Andrew.'

And then Dad looked at Andrew's father. ‘It won't happen again,' he said.

I looked up at Dad. Was he scared of him, or just too nice for his own good? What about the shoplifting? No, nothing. Is that why he hadn't gone to their house? Was Dad all words and procedures? I thought he stood up to people like this – waved his finger in their face and told them to shut up and sit down, and when they turned violent, wrestled them to the ground and put the cuffs on. No, none of that. More Mahatma Gandhi than Rod Cameron. And why hadn't he asked what had been said about Mum? His own wife? All of this as I stood in the setting sun on our front verandah apologising to a kid who'd made my life hell for years.

‘You can go to your room, Henry,' Dad said.

My heart sank. I could see Andrew smiling. ‘Why?' I asked.

‘Now.'

If this was the law, then I didn't want to be a detective. But maybe, I mused, as I sat in my room afterwards, this was something different. Neighbourhood law: a law of compromise and overlooked things (like Bill's shed); a law of dented fenders and bruised temples; a law of let's sort it out for ourselves, even if it isn't always entirely fair.

With the last few rays of sun, Dad came into my room and sat beside me on the floor. His knees cracked as he slid down the side of my bed and loosened his tie. Then he held out his hand and said, ‘Can I have a go?'

Without looking at him I handed him the brush and he picked up the Stuka. He started painting inside the lines I'd drawn on the wing. ‘So?' he said.

I didn't reply.

‘Where are the bombs?'

I shrugged.

‘He might need them.'

‘I stuck them together wrong.'

‘Ah . . . what did he say to you?'

‘Doesn't matter.'

‘Tell me.'

‘Doesn't matter.'

‘What did he say about Mum?'

I was silent.

‘Henry?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Nothing?'

‘I made that up.'

Dad wasn't so sure. ‘No you didn't.'

‘I did,' I shot back.

‘Why would you say that?'

I lifted my head and almost shouted at him. ‘Why would you send me to my room? Without asking? Without finding out what happened? I thought you were a detective.'

He painted in silence for a full minute. Eventually I looked at him and said, ‘You told Mister Eckert you'd talk to him. You could've then.'

‘There's a time and place for everything.'

‘Cos he was a big fella.'

‘No, Henry. The issue was the lemon. You bring in other things and it becomes confused. I'll talk to him.'

I reclaimed my Stuka and continued painting. ‘That wasn't fair,' I muttered.

‘I know,' he agreed.

‘You should hear the things Andrew's said to me, and to Janice, and the little ones.'

‘It's just how things work.'

‘Why?'

‘You threw the lemon.'

And that's where it ended, Dad standing, his knees cracking again, wiping his hands on his pants and leaving my room.

I woke up the next morning with voices through my window. A couple of old girls stood on the footpath gasbagging. ‘Even the cold tap's hot,' one said.

‘Yes, but you run it.'

‘The weather forecasters don't know. Last night they said it wouldn't crack eighty, this morning they reckon a hundred. If they want someone to guess, I can do that. What about their radars and balloons?'

Voices mixing with wisteria, blowing in on a warm, gentle breeze, as the thud of over-ripe peaches hitting the ground in Kazz Houseman's yard welcomed another day. Hot water from the cold tap. The streets busy as people rushed to and from shops before it got too hot. And the sound of a small truck pulling up outside our house. I looked out to see the two women watching a man in overalls unloading a box. ‘Morning, ladies,' he said to them, struggling.

‘Good morning,' they replied, softly, slowly, as though he was taking a liberty.

I joined Mum, still in her nightie and dressing gown, standing at the front door. ‘What is it?' I asked.

‘An air-conditioner,' she replied.

‘For my room?'

‘Hardly. The lounge.'

She used a phone book to prop open the door as the man in overalls trudged up our driveway. ‘Thanks, love,' he said, entering. ‘Which room?'

‘Here.'

He went into our lounge room and lowered the box onto the floor. Then he turned around and smiled at us. ‘Which window?'

‘Christ,' I muttered, recognising the man's face, and they both looked at me.

‘Pardon?' Mum said.

‘Nothing.'

‘That one,' she continued, pointing, holding her dressing gown closed.

There was no doubt about it. It was Heinrich Himmler. Andrew Arthurson was right, he installs air-conditioners. His face was chubby, his hair shaved up the sides, he wore wire-framed specs and had the small, piercing, owl-like eyes that Janice had described. As he started undoing the box, he said, ‘This should come as a great relief.'

Mum smiled. ‘I've been at Bob for years.'

‘You won't know yourselves.'

He didn't sound very German. He didn't look very German. At that moment it was a bit hard to imagine the head of the SS standing in my lounge installing a Kelvinator.

‘Hottest summer since nineteen thirty-nine,' he said. ‘That was a stinker. Remember?'

Still, if Janice was right, it could all be part of his cover. No. If this was Himmler then I was Hitler. Janice was delusional.

Slowly the man lifted the large grey machine out of its box and Mum almost gasped. ‘Oh, it's beautiful,' she said.

‘Two horsepower. Keep chugging till Judgement Day.' He looked at me. ‘What y' reckon, young fella?'

I was lost for words.

‘What's your name?' he asked.

‘Henry.'

His face lit up. ‘Ah, another Henry, that's my name: Henry Wright. Glad to make your acquaintance.' He held out his hand. I shook it, looking for the telltale SS ring that Janice had described. Nothing but calluses. His hand was big, hot and hairy. But it wasn't as strong as it looked. He had a lightness of touch. Like cold water from a hot tap.

I couldn't stand it. I ran to my room, ripped off my clothes and got dressed. Then I put on my socks and sandals and flew out the front door as fast as I could.

‘Where are you going?' Mum called.

‘Nowhere.'

I walked down Thomas Street and turned into Day Terrace, passing front yards full of dead grass, scattered toys and drooping hydrangeas, trying to remember where Mariel Johns lived.

This is it, I thought, opening a gate and approaching the front door. I knocked. The door slowly opened and there was Janice, standing in front of Kevin Johns, Mariel's dad. ‘Hello, Janice,' I said. ‘Hello, Mister Johns.'

Janice turned to him. ‘This is my friend, Henry.'

‘Hello, Henry,' he said, quietly. He stood with his hands on Janice's shoulders, gently massaging them. ‘Where's Mariel?' I asked.

‘She's still in bed,' Janice replied.

I couldn't wait any longer. ‘You've gotta see this,' I said.

‘What?'

‘Himmler.'

‘Where?'

‘My house.'

‘Wow.' She turned to Mariel's dad. ‘Can you tell Mariel I had to go? I'll see her tomorrow.'

He smiled. ‘I'll tell her.'

Janice disappeared back up the dark hallway and Kevin Johns came out to talk to me. ‘Himmler?' he asked.

I shrugged. ‘Janice gets some strange ideas.'

He smiled and just stared at me for ten or twenty seconds. Then Janice came back out with her bag. ‘See you, Mister Johns.'

‘See you, Janice.'

Janice walked ahead of me and I struggled to keep up. ‘What were you doing?' I asked.

‘Where?'

‘With Mariel's dad?'

She paused to think and then said, ‘He made me breakfast. Why's Himmler at your house?'

‘He's installing an air-conditioner.'

‘Bullshit.'

‘He is. Hey, I threw a lemon at Andrew. Got him in the head.'

‘Bullshit.'

‘I did. You ask my dad.'

‘You're a dreamer, Page.'

I struggled to get in front of her. ‘You can talk. At least I don't think – '

‘Is that his truck?' she asked.

‘Yes.'

She stopped to inspect it. ‘Never seen a truck at his place.'

‘Prob'ly a work truck.'

She climbed onto the running board and looked inside the cab. ‘Receipts, pipes, a bottle of lemonade. I'd have to do a more thorough search.'

‘It's not Himmler,' I said.

‘How do you know?'

‘He lived here in nineteen thirty-nine.'

She hopped down and scowled at me. ‘That's what he says.'

‘I had to look after Anna and Gavin.'

‘Let's go.'

We went inside. We stood watching as the man struggled to get the box into the window frame. ‘This is Janice Riley,' my mother said.

He turned and winked at her. She looked at me and her mouth dropped open. I shook my head.

‘It is,' she whispered.

‘Is what?' Mum asked.

But Henry the elder was looking back at Janice. ‘Riley . . . Riley . . . you're not Bill's girl?'

Janice nodded, slowly.

‘Ah, I used to work with him at Bennett's. Haven't seen him for years. Be sure to say hello.'

‘Janice lives next door,' Mum offered.

‘Yeah . . . must be, fifteen years. Must pop in and say hello.'

And then he picked up a drill and started screwing the frame in place. I looked at Janice and smiled. She screwed up her nose and then said out loud, ‘You look like Heinrich Himmler.'

Henry Wright laughed. ‘People say that. All I need's a mo and I'll be set, eh?
Sieg heil!
'

He managed a Hitler salute with his free hand. Then he turned and looked at us and said, ‘Although, you never know . . . I'm just about the right age.'

Chapter Five

A few days later we set off for Goolwa for our annual do-nothing holiday in the sun. Dad had worked late so it was nearly dark when we arrived at the caravan park. The Rileys were already there, settled into a pop-top CaraRest home away from home. They'd already been swimming, their towels hung out to dry on rails that ran the length of their van; they'd already covered the floor in sand, and Liz had already swept it out several times; they'd already burnt their faces brown and red and cut their feet on glass in the dunes; they'd already played three rounds of mini-golf and found a crab the size of a penny under rocks in the tidal zone.