Settling the Account (12 page)

‘Reverend Simons must be nearly sixty, Mal,’
Amy said. ‘It doesn’t make him a coward just because he didn’t want
to fight a mob of young… young
larrikins
. They should be
ashamed of themselves.’

‘Just ’cause they were having a bit of fun.
You’re an old misery like Simons.’ Evidently remembering the
success of his earlier jab, he repeated it. ‘You’re like Pa.’

‘I don’t mind people having fun, Mal,’ said
Amy. ‘I want you to enjoy yourself. I just don’t—’ she stopped as
she realised Malcolm had gone outside, David trailing in his wake.
She sighed, and went back to her work. It as much use expecting
Malcolm to take any notice of her as it was wishing that she could
have seen the fireworks.

*

Amy lay in bed staring into the darkness,
wondering what had woken her so abruptly. The night seemed as
tranquil as it should, the distant sound of a morepork only serving
to accentuate the silence around the cottage.

So why was she suddenly wide-awake and wary?
She lay very still, probing the silence until she heard it again: a
slight jingling of metal against metal. The sound of someone
shifting things about in the shed that held the horses’ tack.

Moving as quietly as she could, she pushed
the covers back and crouched on her bed to look outside. She could
not see the shed from her window, but now that her senses were
attuned she could hear other noises. Again there was the metallic
jingling, and a muffled curse as whoever was carrying the bridle
tried to stop it making a noise as it swung. Then footsteps
sounded, rustling through the long grass between the shed and the
horse paddock.

Just as it occurred to her to wonder why
Biff had made no challenge to the intruder, the dog gave a short
bark that seemed more questioning than aggressive.

‘Shut up, Biff,’ she heard a low voice say.
With a mixture of distress and resignation, Amy recognised that
voice: it was Malcolm prowling around outside, doing his best to
catch his pony and ride away without waking anyone in the
cottage.

Her mind raced while she listened to him
catch Brownie and lead the pony over to the fence to mount. If she
rushed out to try and stop him she would be sure to wake Charlie,
and he would be dangerously angry at such flagrant disobedience
from Malcolm. But if she let him go off by himself he would be
getting into Heaven alone knew what sort of mischief.

She sank down on the bed, helplessness
washing over her. Malcolm might survive the escapade unscathed, or
he might not; he would have to take his chances. He was a big boy
for twelve; he could probably hold his own in the company he chose
to keep. And if Charlie were to storm out there and find Malcolm
sneaking off he would half kill the boy; she knew that with utter
certainty. She tried to take comfort in the knowledge that at least
Malcolm was too young for whoring.

Biff gave a whine of excitement as the sound
of hooves told Amy that the pony was moving down the track. ‘Make
him shut up,’ she heard Malcolm urge, and for a moment she wondered
why the boy was talking to himself.

Only for a moment. ‘Shh, Biff,’ came a
higher-pitched voice through the darkness. ‘Lie down! Good
dog.’

Amy scrambled back to her knees to peer out
through the window, forgetting to move quietly. She strained her
eyes to make out the figures in what little moonlight shone through
the ragged clouds as the pony moved off down the track.

Not my little Davie! Not my little
boy
. Amy leaned out the window, trying to catch a last glimpse
of the boys, until she realised she was in danger of falling right
out. She collapsed limply onto the bed.
Not Davie. Not
Davie
.

It was no use hoping she would get any sleep
that night. She got up and crept through the house, running her
hand along the walls to feel her way in the darkness, until she was
in the boys’ bedroom. The moonlight was brighter there; she gave a
start when she saw two lumps in the bed. A step closer showed her
that the lumps were the boys’ pillows, slipped under the blankets
in a clumsy attempt to disguise their owners’ absence. The
childishness of the gesture almost made her weep. Those boys were
ridiculously young to be out on their own after dark. Especially
David.

She paced up and down the tiny room until
her legs ached with weariness, though her mind raced as frantically
as ever. Then she sat on the boys’ bed with her back against the
wall and her arms wrapped around her legs, looking at the strange
shadows moonlight made out of the familiar objects in the room.

It smelt of little boys: of the dirt she
scrubbed out of their knees every Saturday night only to find it as
ingrained as ever by Monday afternoon. The horsy smell that hours
spent riding bareback left clinging to their clothes. The doggy
smell of Biff from the times when David sneaked him onto the bed.
And there was the smell that hers was the only nose in the house
sensitive to pick up: a faint trace of urine from the last time
David had wet the bed after she had thought he was too old to need
a napkin at night. No matter how many times she aired that mattress
the smell remained. Its association with infancy reminded her of
the sickly-sweet milky smell that had hung around the boys when
they were babies. Tiny little babies nuzzling at her breasts,
relying on her for protection. They were still little boys, for all
Malcolm tried to act so grown-up. And they were out there in the
night with no one to look after them.

She shivered and hugged herself more
closely, then stifled a cry as she felt something brush against
her. ‘Ginger,’ she whispered. ‘You gave me a fright. Do you want a
cuddle? I do, anyway.’

She lowered her knees to make a lap. The big
tabby climbed onto her, circled around until he was comfortable,
then lay down with his head resting against her chest. Amy felt
rather than heard his rumbling purr as she stroked him. Her stomach
was warm where Ginger lay, and the warmth slowly spread through her
as she leaned against the wall and settled down for the long, weary
vigil.

*

David clung tightly to Malcolm as they
cantered along the beach, moonlight silvery on the water now that
the clouds had cleared. The wind slipped past Malcolm to bite at
David’s unprotected ears. He pressed his face against Malcolm’s
back, warm through his jacket, to try and hide from it.

‘Don’t wriggle,’ Malcolm called without
turning his head. ‘You’ll put Brownie off his stride. It’s heavy
for him, carrying both of us.’

David did his best to keep still, but he
could not resist leaning a little to one side to peer down at the
sand as it disappeared under Brownie’s hooves. The pony stumbled
slightly, and another yell from Malcolm had David sitting bolt
upright and clinging tighter than ever.

His heart was pounding with excitement as he
looked about him, eyes wide at the strangeness of his surroundings.
He had travelled along this stretch of beach far more times than he
could remember, but everything looked so different in the moonlight
that he could hardly identify a single landmark.

He had never been out at night without his
parents, and never beyond the valley even then. He had listened
wide-eyed to Malcolm’s tales of outings with his friends: of wild
races on their horses, stolen kegs of beer, wrestling matches that
turned into fights, and daring raids on the choicer orchards of the
district. The other boys were all older than Malcolm, and David had
known that there was no hope they would accept a ten-year-old like
him as part of their group.

And then yesterday Malcolm had sworn him to
secrecy with the most solemn oaths and told him of tonight’s
escapade, then (wonder of wonders) told him that if he wanted he
could come too. If he wanted! All that day David had thought he
would burst, he was so full of pride and anticipation.

He had been determined not to fall asleep
while he and Malcolm lay in bed waiting until it was safe to creep
from the house, but Malcolm had had to shake him awake when the
time came. There was no trace of sleepiness in him now, though. Not
now that he was having the first real adventure of his life.

Brownie’s hooves rattled noisily over stones
as they left the beach and met the road into Ruatane. As soon as
they had crossed the bridge Malcolm slowed the pony to a walk, and
David made out a shadowy group of figures. There were about a dozen
youths, all much bigger than him. As they spoke in loud whispers he
recognised a few voices, but could only put names to Des Feenan and
the heavy-browed youth beside him who by his likeness to Des must
be his brother Liam. Liam Feenan seemed to be the oldest there.
Most of the others were town boys, David knew; the sort his mother
called ‘larrikins’. The ones who were old enough to go into the
pubs tended to spend their evenings in one of Ruatane’s two hotels,
sometimes buying up beer to share with their younger cronies who
hung about hopefully outside.

Tonight they were all united by the
expectation of trouble. Though they spoke in low voices, David
could sense their excitement. His own heart beat faster as he
looked around at the other boys, most of them towering above him
now that he had slid from Brownie’s back.

‘What’s he doing here?’ Des demanded of
Malcolm. David did not need to see his face to know there was a
sneer on it.

‘You said we should bring as many fellows as
we could,’ Malcolm said, a trace of belligerence in his voice. ‘So
I brought my brother. What’s wrong with that?’

‘Aw, bloody hell,’ Des said in disgust. ‘We
don’t want little kids here! What say he starts bawling and wants
his Mama?’

David felt his face burning as the other
boys gathered round and stared at him. He wanted to protest that he
was as tough as any of them, but when he opened his mouth no sound
came out except a small squeak that was lost in the murmur of
voices.

‘He won’t,’ Malcolm insisted.

‘How old is he?’ one of the other boys
asked.

‘Twelve,’ Malcolm lied.

‘I thought you were twelve, Mal,’ Des said
dubiously. ‘How can he be twelve too?’

‘I’m thirteen.’ Malcolm awarded himself the
extra year with such assurance that no one disputed it.

‘Aw, leave him alone, Des,’ Liam Feenan
decreed, secure in his own superiority of age and height. ‘Mal’s
always ready for a bit of action, his brother can’t be too much
different. What’s your name, boy?’

‘Dave,’ David said, trying to make his voice
deeper than its usual soprano.

‘Have a taste of this, then, Dave. This’ll
give you a bit of spunk.’ He shoved a flask under David’s nose. The
younger boy took a step backwards in surprise. The acrid smell from
the flask burned his nostrils, and reminded him uneasily of his
father in his most terrifying moods.

Malcolm leaned close to whisper in his ear.
‘Drink it,’ he hissed. ‘Show them you’re not a Mama’s boy.’

David snatched hold of the flask and took a
gulp of whatever was in it. He nearly choked as a line of fire
etched its way down his throat, burning a passage into his stomach,
but he managed to smother the sound so that it came out as a
strangled cough. He wiped his hand across his mouth and handed the
flask back to Liam, affecting an air of nonchalance as though he
were used to drinking liquid fire.

‘He knows how to drink, anyway,’ Liam said
with an approving chuckle, tucking the flask back in his jacket
pocket. ‘Let’s get on with the fun.’

There was something lying at Liam’s feet
that David at first took to be a bundle of old clothes, but when
Liam gave it a kick David saw it was a crude effigy made out of
clumps of straw tied to resemble arms and legs. The effigy wore a
dark jacket, and a length of rope had been tied around its neck. ‘I
pinched the coat from Simons’ porch when the old bugger was out the
other day,’ Liam said. ‘Thought it might come in handy. Looks
better on this thing than it did on the other bloke, eh?’ He lifted
his handiwork aloft to admire it the more easily. ‘Time this fellow
went home. Too late at night for him to be out by himself. He might
get in a bit of bother.’ David laughed with the others, though he
had no idea what the older boy meant.

His chest swelling with pride at being
accepted by such company, David listened intently as Liam outlined
the plan. Malcolm had been vague on the details of the night’s
escapade, apart from telling David they were going to have some fun
at Reverend Simons’ expense. David was not greatly enlightened by
Liam’s explanation, but it seemed that they were to creep around to
the minister’s house, make their way into his paddock, and there do
whatever damage they could manage without risking their own
persons.

The explanation was interrupted by frequent
swigs from the keg that stood at Liam’s feet. From time to time
other boys snatched up the keg and took long swallows. Malcolm
darted in and made a grab for it, took a swig, then passed it to
David.

The beer tasted sweet after the harsh
whisky, and David gulped at it gratefully. As he handed the keg
back to Malcolm, the burning in his throat extinguished by the cool
beer, he remembered belatedly that his mother always said beer was
the first step on the road to strong drink. Strong drink, he knew,
meant whisky; well, having tried it once he would be in no hurry to
taste it again. But he would not like his mother to know what he
had done. He wouldn’t want her to be upset with him.

He pushed the thought aside. His mother
would never know, he and Malcolm had sneaked away so quietly. She
would think they were both fast asleep. He gave an excited little
giggle as he thought about just where he was and who he was with.
Malcolm dug him in the ribs and told him to be quiet.

When the boys who had come any distance had
tethered their horses under the bridge, the group made its way to
the vicarage. The keg of beer made the rounds several times as they
walked along the dusty road, and David took his turn with the rest
of the boys. The road seemed to have an unreasonable number of
large rocks in it, all of them eager to try and trip him up, and he
had become mysteriously clumsy. By the time they reached the gate
that led into the vicarage paddock, his feet had received several
painful wrenches. But for some reason that he could not quite
fathom, it all seemed very funny. Several times Malcolm had to
shush him as he broke into foolish giggles.