Yesterday's Dust (27 page)

John glanced at him and at the diminishing pile of biscuits, then away, but he sat again and he drank his tea, his face turned to the window. Denial
came slowly, following the flush of blood creeping up from his neck settling in cheeks and brow. ‘Sam and May were in Warran a week back.' He drank tea, then turned and went on quickly. ‘Annie called me. She said they'd driven up to see the baby – to
see Bethany. They would have passed through town. You may have seen the brother.'

Malcolm shrugged, pointed with his cup to the old Burton place.
‘I think not. I watched him light a cigarette, Burton. Not ten metres from my front door. I have spent many years of my life watching your father, documenting his bad habits.'

John glanced at his old headmaster, then away. Another biscuit-munching silence followed. Malcolm had dispensed with two before John turned back to him.

‘I'll guarantee you one thing, Mr Fletcher – if I ever set eyes on
my father again, I won't need to consider my future. The courts will look after that for me.'

Malcolm nodded, his gaze on the single biscuit left lonely on its plate. He thought of his doctor, offered the biscuit to his visitor, and when it was refused, he sent it down to his gut with its mates.

‘I would have hoped that the old computer in the sky might have had a more worthy quest for you than
breaking rubble on some chain gang. Better the crowbar, Burton. Better the crowbar,' he said, his hands rubbing together, shedding biscuit crumbs as John stood, preparing now to leave. ‘It may have been his brother Sam. Yes. Obviously it would have been the brother. Twins, perhaps, have similar mannerisms.' Better not to confront the issue. Let the guilty boy keep his apples today. He smiled,
not wanting his visitor to leave. ‘So, shall you tame the Mallawindy rabble – teach a West to read?'

John was at the door. ‘As you say, it is just a computer game. One program closes and another one opens and leads us to where it may, Mr Fletcher. Why fight it?'

‘Why indeed, Burton? Why indeed?' He prodded his glasses higher on his nose, and glanced over his shoulder to his study. ‘Speaking
of computer programs,' he said. ‘You wouldn't be familiar with these . . . these personal computers, would you? Windows 95? Microsoft Word?'

‘I couldn't keep up with the average ten year old these days, but I used to know my way around them. They use computers at the
school?' John limped back.

‘No. No. Yes. I do believe they have one or two, but it is my own beast I speak of.' He coughed and
gained his feet, then he turned away, spoke to his sink. ‘Would you mind stepping through to my study for a moment?'

John collected his crutches and followed his old teacher into a room unlike the rest of the house. The walls were covered with framed portions of naked women. He moved closer, recognising the pictures as book covers. He'd seen a few, wrapped around books in Ben's shop.

‘My inner
sanctum, and not for everyone, Burton. Definitely not for everyone, but I believe you have a mouth like a padlocked clam. Yes?'

John turned his frown on the older man.

‘Yes. So. It is as you see.' He coughed. ‘Your sister has been more than helpful in the past; she has spent much time in here. And kept her lips sealed, I might add. It goes without saying that I expect the same silence from you
on this matter, Burton.'

John's eyes had wandered back to the framed covers. He counted nine of them. He limped to the bookshelves. Rows of each book, solid stands of red and black and gold. Coll M Chef-Marlet.

There had been times in the last six years when John had doubted his sanity. So it was proven. His sanity had flown. But a madman can lift a hand, point a finger, ask an insane question.

‘Not you?'

Malcolm lifted his many chins, pursed his lips and nodded.

‘You? Him? You're . . .' John pointed to the bookshelves. ‘Him?'

‘Coll. I am indeed he.' Malcolm selected a copy of Number 1. ‘My first-born and my favourite. Do take it.' He pushed the novel at his visitor. ‘I receive free copies from my publisher but, for obvious reasons, I cannot give them away.'

John took the book, but
continued to stare at the man. ‘You? Coll M Chef-Marlet? You wrote that – ?'

‘Lewd smut. Yes. And don't stand there gawping, Burton. We
do what we do and no apologies given. Life is too brief for apologies.' He stripped the cover from his computer, baring its face. ‘Forget Chef-Marlet. This is why I brought you in here. That confounded machine haunts my life. Ann was attempting to instruct me
in its usage, but her knowledge of its internal organs, as with her time, is limited. I attempted to turn three chapters into one and they became stuck somewhere in its gut. The arrogant bastard of a thing will not give them back to me.'

But John Burton was laughing. Years had passed since he had laughed. He could not remember the last time he'd laughed like this, but he leaned against a bookshelf
now, bellowing with laughter, choking, crying with laughter.

‘Very amusing. Yes, indeed, Burton. Well may you laugh, but it pays admirably.' Malcolm nodded and muttered as he reclaimed his book, placing it possessively on the shelf. ‘Come. Come now. I did not invite you in here for your amusement. There is work to be done.'

Friday 5 September

John Burton leaned against the brick wall, surveying the schoolyard. Empty now. The last ball bounced on the verandah, the last bike gone from the stands, the last squabble placed on hold until Monday.

And he wouldn't be here to hear that squabble.

His eyes roamed the small bitumen square and the dusty playing area.
He'd played there a lifetime ago. His feet had walked him to that same school gate for six long years. Much had altered since he'd walked away. New school. New basketball ring. New fence between the playground and the headmaster's house, but old clay, old peppercorn trees, the same tall weeds surviving against the fence with the lunch bags and lolly papers, hair ribbons and half-eaten apples.

The headmaster's residence hadn't altered at all. Cream weatherboard, green roof, twin red brick chimneys, verandah up front, half-verandah at the rear. Small windows, green frames. Johnny had been inside that house; mentally he mapped it, seeing the interior as it had been in Malcolm Fletcher's time, in the time of Malcolm's son. He'd also been a John, which had led to confusion in the playground,
so they'd called him John F, until some wit had added a K. Nicknames had been a part of life in this schoolyard, so John Kelvin Fletcher, fresh from England, had become JFK. The name had carried over to the Daree high school.

He'd been a close friend, and one of too few Johnny had made
in his lifetime. He'd invited Johnny to his house where he'd had his own room, his own desk, his own books,
and Johnny had envied the life he'd possessed, envied him the future, planned for him by his father, the headmaster. He'd envied JFK's new racing bike too, on that day they'd gone riding out at Dead Man's Lane. A Saturday.

And John Fletcher had been dead by the following Saturday, struck down by encephalitis. So much for envy. That was the week the world had ended for Johnny Burton. That was
the week . . .

John shook his head and took up his crutches, making his way to the fence where he picked up an empty cigarette packet and wondered which sixth grader had tossed it there. Not his problem. No more playing at schoolmaster. His plaster was coming off tomorrow and it would be back to the post holes and paintbrushes and long empty days.

A removalist's van had been parked in front
of the residence for most of the afternoon. Norman O'Rouke would not be returning. Old news to Kerrie and John. Two weeks old. O'Rouke was being replaced by a senior mistress, Ms Glen White. She'd be in the classroom come Monday. She had three daughters, but would not be moving them to Mallawindy until the school residence had been ‘made habitable for human occupation'.

‘She's going to share
my flat for a week. I've got two bedrooms,' Kerrie had said.

‘She sounds . . .' John had sought a suitable description.

‘Tough. And I hope she's as tough as she sounds. They're doing the bathroom, putting new floor coverings down and splashing on a bit of paint as soon as Norman's furniture is gone.'

Maybe John would miss his days in the school room. He'd enjoyed the last two weeks. He'd had
a place to go, a reason to put on a shirt. He'd bought a pair of jeans and a sweater. Maroon.

Standing there, playing with the cigarette packet, he watched two men wheel a refrigerator out to the van. He watched them load it then return for a piano, and he wondered who'd played it and how they were going to get it on board. The police hadn't been able to
trace Amy. Her mother lived in Lilydale,
a Melbourne suburb. She said she hadn't heard from her daughter, but Amy's body had not been found. The dead woman, found in Albury, had been identified as a Sydney prostitute.

‘Like two fish out of water,' Kerrie had said today. ‘Amy was this faded tropical goldfish wanting to swim upstream. Norman was one of those grey sucker fish, always sucking onto her fins, holding her back. He wasn't much
older than her, but from a distance he looked like her father.'

And the new teacher, Ms Glen White? What would she be? ‘Another fish out of water?' John had asked.

‘I'm hoping for a six-foot shark with razor teeth, something you couldn't kill with a bazooka,' Kerrie had replied.

An interesting girl, she didn't spend a lot of time wondering if what she said was right or wrong. She let it rip
and hang the consequences. He'd miss her. Miss the lunches they ate together. Miss the laughs.

She had urged him to apply for the job permanently. ‘I like your style, and your size. You're too big to tangle with, John. Go for it.'

He had the qualifications. More than enough. He'd done his years at the university in Brisbane, then taught in a secondary school there for two years, and at a primary
school on the island. Spent most of his life studying something. Over-educated. Overqualified for the job, but not for life.

‘You're home-grown. You know the parents, and that's half the battle when you're dealing with some of these kids.'

He'd let it slide. Shouldn't have. Too late now.

He watched a wardrobe leave the house, saw O'Rouke's mother guarding it, and he smiled.

‘Don't you scratch
it. It was Normy's grandmother's. Watch what you're doing there.' Raucous little woman, she had to be eighty – another Granny Bourke in the making. He and Kerrie had been eating lunch on the verandah when she'd marched around the corner, mouth already in motion.

‘A gummy shark, that one.' Kerrie's mind still on fish. He'd laughed. The old dame hadn't a tooth in her head.

Malcolm Fletcher had
awakened John's laugh, and in recent weeks it had claimed its freedom. He was working his way through Chef-Marlet's novels – now that he knew the author – and his laughter sometimes disturbed the mud brick house in the dead of night. Not that the novels were particularly humorous – a little black humour, perhaps; but it was the thought of his old headmaster having written those words that tickled
the funny-bone.

No one to laugh with, though, about the old man's secret. Except Annie. She and her little ones had driven down on Sunday. They'd been drinking tea, eating Ellie's pumpkin cake, when he'd said, ‘Have you read Chef-Marlet, Ann?'

She'd turned to him, held his eye for a full ten seconds. ‘You don't read that smut, Johnny?'

‘Bron reads them,' Ben had said. ‘She's sweating on Number
10, but by the sound of it, there isn't going to be a Number 10. The rep was up here last week.'

Ann and Johnny knew more than Ben and the rep, but they said not a word.

Secrets. Were they to be bound forever by secrets? He sighed then and looked towards his car – his father's car, now registered in his name. Time to go home. Didn't want to go home. Didn't want to get in that car and drive.
Always got the urge to keep on going when he got behind that wheel. Just go.

Go to Narrawee and get rid of one secret.

He shook his head and turned his eyes again to the men at work and he let his mind roam back to Malcolm's son. Only a month between him and JFK. Both close to their sixteenth birthdays the year the world had ended. Too old to play games, but he and his mate had played at archaeology
most Saturdays, riding out to the sand dunes, Annie sitting on the bar of his bike, JFK toting their digging tools.

They'd found an old Aboriginal burial ground and had been
digging there for weeks. Not acceptable these days, but back then no one had considered old bones as part of a lost culture.

He'd taken Annie everywhere with him, as much to get her away from Ellie as from her father. His
mate hadn't cared. John Fletcher had liked teaching her, liked looking at the sign language book and finding the signs for new words. She was signing well, and reading his lips too well. In the eighteen months since her father had brought her home from the Melbourne hospital, John had been her teacher.

She'd been making a sand castle close by when he and JFK started their dig that day. They unearthed
charcoal first, then burned bones. When they'd found a portion of a metal zip fastener, they knew these bones hadn't been those of some ancient black man.

Then Johnny had seen Annie pick something up from a clump of reeds. He'd seen her look at it, grasp it in her hand, hide the hand behind her back.

‘Show me,' he'd signed.

‘No thing.'

‘Bottle top?' he'd signed.

‘No thing.' And she'd cried.

He'd taken her wrist, opened her hand and seen the ring.

‘Where did she find that?' JFK had dropped his tools. ‘That's a good ring. Those are probably diamonds on the sides.'

Johnny had known it was a good ring. Known the man who had worn that good ring too. He'd stared at the shoulder diamonds, flashing fire in the sunlight, and they had burned his eyes while a ghost walked over his grave.

Vision of his father in the flashing fire. His father scrubbing the boot of his car. Smell of disinfectant. Smell of decay.

What did you have in the boot, Dad?

A dirty mongrel dog.

Stink of rot.

Dirty mongrel dog.

Uncle Sam?

Uncle Sam's ring in his hand, the smell of disinfectant and decay in his nostrils, he'd picked up the burned zip fastener. A heavy-duty zip. Uncle Sam had always worn
jeans. Then he'd dropped the ring into his pocket and taken up the shovel to search for more. Uncle Sam had always worn a heavy gold chain at his throat.

The voice, his mate's voice of sanity: ‘We probably shouldn't touch anything else, Johnny. We probably should get Constable Johnson out here, shouldn't we?'

‘You get him. Ride in and tell him, but don't say anything about the ring. It's Dad's.'
First lie. Stupid lie. Why? ‘Annie must have taken it off the dressing table. She'll get into trouble if he finds out.' Second lie. Why?

And too quickly he'd taken the ring from his pocket and slipped it onto his middle finger to hide the inscription.

Sam and May 1953
.

He'd spoken to Annie when they were alone. ‘You have to tell me where you got it, Annie. You have to tell me what happened
when you were in Narrawee.' She could hear when she wanted to. He hadn't heard of elective mutes in those days, but he'd known she wasn't deaf.

‘Tell me,' he'd signed. ‘Uncle Sam ring. Where Annie find ring?'

‘Forget,' she'd signed, and she'd cried.

‘Tell me, Annie love. You have to tell me.'

‘I like forget, my Johnny.'

He'd taken her home, and he'd gone back to the sand dunes, riding beside
his mate in the back seat of the police car. They'd shown Bob Johnson their find. And the zip. Hadn't mentioned the ring.

It was late when Johnson drove the boys home, and John had been late for dinner. He'd walked to the kitchen door and stood watching his father gnaw on a chicken drumstick. So big, Jack Burton had dominated that table. Gravy on his lips. Roast chicken, mashed potatoes, pumpkin
and green beans on his plate. John could
see it today as clearly as he had seen it back then. A colourful image to hold on to for so many years.

‘We found a body out at the sand dunes,' he'd said, his eyes watching his father's face. It had paled. He'd dropped the drumstick and stood abruptly, walked from the room, walked away from his plate of roast chicken.

Little Annie watching, reading faces,
her fork playing in mashed potato and brown gravy. Big dark eyes like pits. Angular little face tight. Little mouth moving. One large front tooth and a gap.

But no time to think of her that night. He'd snatched a handful of coins from the egg money jar and he'd ridden up to the post office where he'd placed a call to Narrawee. Had to know. Had to be sure. Then he'd tell. Then he'd go to Constable
Johnson and tell what he knew.

May had picked up the phone.

‘I want to speak to Uncle Sam, please. It's Johnny,' he'd said.

‘John? I'm sorry, but Sam isn't here.'

‘I know he's not there. Dad . . . Dad . . . ' He couldn't say the words. ‘I found Uncle Sam's ring up here, Aunty May. I think Dad–'

‘Don't.' That's all she'd said. ‘Please God. Don't do anything, John. Please God, don't say any
more.' And she'd hung up.

Mr Ponsford had ridden down the next morning with a telegram: ‘Jack. Call me. Urgent. May.

She knew. She knew Sam was dead!

Madness.

And Annie hiding from him. Running from him. Crying. Annie knew.

He'd gone to the willow tree, to where he'd watched her hide her golden syrup tin, and he'd opened it, placing Sam's ring safe inside. No one touched her golden syrup
tin. Ellie wasn't interested, Ben was trustworthy and Jack Burton wouldn't have gone hunting around the river for it. Johnny had looked at her treasures, brought with her from Narrawee, and at the scraps of paper, folded small.

And he'd read her little poems.