The Pink House at Appleton (31 page)

That Friday afternoon, Boyd, in turmoil, his heart hurting for Miss Casserly, his senses consumed with the absent Susan, left the school bus and went straight to Mavis. When the
cauchee
sounded four o'clock, Mama, looking out the window, saw him rush from Mavis's room and enter the house. She pretended not to see him as he went down the hall and into his own room.
He was only a child, just a little child.

In his room, a feeling of desperation came over Boyd. It was the end of another week and there had been no news about Susan. The Mullard radio reported the death of someone called Christian Dior and sad music accompanied the reports. He was convinced that this time they would receive news of Susan's death. So many people had died: Grandpa and Grandma Pratt, Mr Donald Lee of Water Lane, Mrs Ten-To-Six, the hundreds of people in the Kendal Crash and now Mr Burton. He sobbed, self-consciously, knowing that it was over.

Eyes misty, he looked out his bedroom window, half-expecting to see another frightful postman come riding up. But the driveway was empty and in soft afternoon sun. No postman appeared. What he glimpsed was a familiar flash of colour on the road through the trees, a fleeting emotion. Desperation flew out the window in that instant. What he saw was the pink figure of Susan. She was on her bicycle, alone. She had returned. His heart leaped and he cried out, unconsciously. Happiness: the taste of lollipops, the sound of music, the scent of lilies assaulted his senses.

Glancing swiftly behind into the hall and seeing no one, Boyd mounted the windowsill and dropped like a stone into the carpet grass. Then he was up and running on weak legs, already breathless, towards Barrington's bicycle propped against the garage wall. Poppy was ahead of him down the driveway, himself feeling the blazing excitement. So furiously did Boyd ride that he came out ahead of Susan down the lane where the roads forked. Barrington's bicycle, made from scavenged Raleigh parts and put together at the factory by one of the mechanics, was old and skeletal, without mudguards, but it could go. As Boyd flew by at unimaginable speed, Susan gave a startled cry, as if set upon by small birds, and braked at the side of the road. But Boyd could not stop.

The bicycle had no brakes and could only be stopped by exerting extreme pressure on the pedals or, as Barrington liked to do, extending one leg on the rear wheel and pressing down hard with his crepe-soled shoe. Boyd applied as much pressure as he could till his calves and thighs bulged and weakened, but could only slow a hundred yards away. By then, he was facing the Mitchison's house, whereas Susan was near the entrance to the pink house in the opposite direction. It would be difficult to turn and ride back, passing Susan a second time. But that was what should be done; it was what his inner voice whispered, what Poppy wanted, bounding back and forth and waiting for him to follow. Seeing her after such a long time, in the heat of the moment, had made him reckless. But the extreme exertion had sapped his bravery. He stood astride the bicycle in the middle of the road. To ride back was impossible. What could he say? What would he do? The only voice he listened to told him not to go back.

Susan now turned and was riding towards him, yellow sun shafting through the trees, stroking her as she advanced. It was as if she rode through yellow bands of flame. Boyd continued up the road away from her, past her house, past the Dowding's house down the lane, past the paddocks where the Dowding's horses were, down the incline to open ground beyond the houses, where large poinciana trees grew. He got off the bicycle under the trees, out of anxiety but also out of exhaustion, and sat on the soft grass among the bright pink blossoms of the poinciana. If Susan should come riding down the grassy slope, which he desperately hoped and prayed she would, he would be trapped, unable to get away; in the perfect place.

If only it were possible to speak the words he could not speak, it would be so easy. He envied Yvonne, speaking so effortlessly. Words simply flew from her, light and gay, like small birds. His words were like muscovado sugar, heavy, crude and slow, demanding so much of him that in the end it was better to say nothing. He knew, from kindergarten, that his words were only feelings. He wanted Susan to be at that place with him where words would not be necessary, only feelings, looks, a gentle touch.

Her scent now descended like falling pollen. She came down the slope at girl-speed, steady and upright, holding the handlebars purposefully, the familiar image of his days and nights. This was not a dream, lovely feelings in a classroom or a distant vision. Around him the scarlet blossoms shifted. They too felt the end of the long waiting. Boyd hoped, a fleeting, cowardly hope, that Susan might turn at the very last moment and ride back up the slope. But there was a silence, the silence of unseen movement. Poppy barked. Boyd glanced over his shoulder. Susan had put her bicycle down carefully nearby and was walking over, her strap-shoes rustling the grass. Poppy went to her as if approaching an old friend, tail in a smooth round motion, and sniffed at her frock. Susan bent to stroke him, and if she blushed it was unseen as poinciana-pink reflected everywhere.

‘Poppy!' Boyd commanded. Poppy, chastened, ran back to stand by him, waiting, head slanted, eyes quizzing.

Susan seemed slightly embarrassed, waiting too, lips parted. Boyd, tongue-tied, looked away towards the river, desperate for inspiration. Susan looked there too, hands behind her back. Neither of them spoke. There was a tension, a creeping suspense, a loud silence pounding the air. Still looking towards the river, Susan sat down on the crimson carpet in the way that girls do, carefully, arranging her dress beneath her in a choreographed movement. Poppy sat down too, paws out, head up, eyes inquisitive. And the steam from the factory went
Shh! Shh! Shh!

‘It was the same at Monymusk,' Susan said softly, sitting so that the inner part of her elbows turned out, as girls do. She observed Boyd with full, dedicated eyes.

Boyd turned to face her, bracing himself, squeezing his toes together in his shoes, managing a wan smile. But he looked past her eyes. It was not the same as on that day in the classroom when she had been just a few desks away. To look into her eyes now, close up, would mean seeing everything – and she would see everything too, his naked thoughts. He very much wanted to ask if she was going away again. But he said nothing. He wanted to touch and play with her as he did with Poppy but he did nothing.

‘Do you like the sound of it?' Susan's smile was sympathetic, reassuring.

‘Yes,' Boyd said. ‘It comes out of pipes. The steam can't get out and it's trying as hard as it can, very hard. And the pipes would burst if it couldn't get out.'

‘It's talking. It's saying
Shh! Shh! Shh!
Silence! Silence! Just like at school.' And Susan laughed.

Boyd laughed too. ‘And when it gets out it makes a big noise. That's when the men go for their lunch.'

‘The noise used to frighten me. When I was little. Before I was used to it.'

‘It's very loud. Louder than an aeroplane.'

‘It's like a big dog barking.'

‘No, like cows mooing.' Boyd's brows wrinkled, correcting her.

‘Like big cows mooing.'

‘Like big cows mooing and mooing because their baby calf drowned. They turned their backs and the baby calf fell into the river.'

Susan hesitated. ‘Sad mooing.'

‘Moaning mooing,' Boyd replied in acknowledgement. He felt warmth moving from his toes to his fingertips. The sluggish muscovado sugar was turning to runny honey. He felt the lovely heat radiating from Susan. He saw the poinciana-pink on the ground all around, the buffed pinkness of her, and even Poppy, sitting still on the ground, reflected shades of pink. It was a special moment, emboldening Boyd, making him draw closer, not be afraid. But still the right words would not come. In his hurry he had forgotten the new note of thirteen special words, secreted away in the chest of drawers in his room. But he knew, at that moment, how difficult it would be to present such a thing as a note. How would he do it? It wasn't simply a matter of handing it over.

‘Mummy sometimes puts her fingers in her ears when it's very loud. Evadne says it's a siren.' Susan lifted her dress and crossed her legs on the ground, making a space for Boyd as he moved closer, pretending to fuss about with Poppy, who backed away playfully.

‘It's a
cauchee
,' Boyd said.

‘What?'

‘A
cauchee
. It's what Vincent and Mavis call it. And Perlita, our maid, called it
cauchee
too. Papa fired her.'

‘Did she steal money?'

‘No, only fish. And Papa fired Agatha and Adassa and Melvyna too. Mama didn't like it.'

‘Oh,' Susan said.

There was a pause. After a time, Boyd asked. ‘When you were sick in Mandeville, did they wash you down with Bay Rum?'

‘Sick?' Susan seemed puzzled.

‘Poorly,' Boyd said. ‘When you were very, very poorly.'

‘No.' Susan drew out the word. ‘I wasn't sick. Mummy sent me up there but I wanted to come home.'

‘Oh,' Boyd said.

Moments passed again, no one said anything. It was a wonderful silence broken finally by Susan.

‘I watch the moon, and the moon watches me,' she said.

‘Me too,' Boyd replied, excited, having always thought that only he had a relationship with the moon. It looked at him between the pillow and the bedclothes at night. The face of the moon was soft and friendly and it knew his secrets and his thoughts.

‘It follows me around at night.'

‘And me too,' Boyd said, unbelieving.

‘I look at it from behind my bed,' Susan told him.

‘And I watch it hiding behind the curtains,' Boyd replied.

‘And the windowsill. And it still watches me.'

‘And from in the trees when you think it's not there anymore.'

‘Sometimes I run round the house and back again, and still it's there,' Susan said, quite animated.

‘It looks at me through the window!' Boyd exclaimed.

‘And at me too!' Susan grew quiet, breathing rapidly.

Again there was the silence, broken again by Susan, eyes bright.

‘I see the flowers wake at night,' she said.

‘And I watch the roses open. The pink ones, the red ones and the white ones.'

‘So do I.' Susan clapped her hands, breathless.

‘I lick the flowers,' Boyd said, head turned to one side, ‘when they're all wet with the dew.'

‘Lick the flowers with your tongue.' Susan smiled at him, impressed.

Boyd smiled back. He felt as if he'd spoken a million words and that there was no need to say more.

They were sitting close together now, almost touching, and Susan's scent was strong and good, like lawn grass in afternoon heat. Boyd could see the scene as from a distance and found himself looking at her brown hair, the hair he had witnessed shining in the sun that first day. It was fine, straight hair that moved easily, sometimes flying up across her face at the slightest puff of wind. He saw her arms and the tiny, downy hairs there, the shape of her body upright on the ground, and returned his gaze to her hair. He could not bring himself to look at her lips or her eyes, paths to the inner secrets, to the music place, the place of revelation. His gaze went to the ground and moved along it till Susan's shoes, brown and buckled, came into view. His eyes moved upward to the hem of her dress then stopped. All the while, fresh streams of scent came off her, lollipops, Paradise Plums, a sweet drug in the heat. Feelings of distress taking hold, Boyd got up suddenly and ran to the hedgerows where the bougainvillea blazed. He was going to do it at last, without the words. A posy of pretty petals, fresh and bright, filled his hand, their sap wetting his fingers, foretelling delights to come. He approached Susan, her peachy neck reaching up, bent down and gave it to her.

Only he knew the taste and the feeling. Only he knew the ever-present hunger that words could never describe. Only he knew about the licking and the sucking. It was like weeping when the music spoke to him in every secret place. Showing Susan was easier than talking. He did not want to think of Mavis and Barry, Miss Hutchinson and Mr Moodie. Their troubling images threatened to bear down upon him. But Susan was pretty music and lollipops and she prevailed.

The initiation lasted as long as it took the shadows to creep beyond the hedgerows. There was no protestation, only supplication, like taking Holy Communion for the first time. White birds called out on their way down to the river, their shadows passing swiftly on the ground. Some craned their necks to look at the small boy and girl and dog, heads together in the grass. And they heard the
Shh! Shh! Shh!
from the factory.

‘Shh!' Susan whispered, showing burgundy lips, fingers dark from the feast.

Boyd, the close contact giving him enormous confidence, fixed his gaze upon Susan's lips now. Lovely music filled his ears. Susan's lips were dark red, in sharp contrast to the speckled pink of her cheeks. Now that, at last, he had reached her lips, he cast stealthy, oblique glances in the direction of her eyes, the final, vital spot. A river wind came up and enveloped them. His hand went down, her hands went out, Poppy barked, and Susan fell, laughing, sideways into the grass. He saw the back of her knees, the crumpled part of her dress, leaves in her hair, and inhaled the sweet heat smell.

Shh! Shh! Shh!
said the steam, and in that moment he saw her eyes, appealing just like the prized marbles in his bureau drawer, sheltered under lowered lids, speaking to him, a voice of music, caressing his heart. Boyd, frightened and elated at the boldness of the music, suddenly grew weak and fell forward into the grass, into the poinciana-pink.

* * *

That Saturday, they sat still on the verandah of the pink house, legs dangling from the chairs. Flame-coloured butterflies pestered the forget-me-nots at the base of the verandah. Susan had a crimson hibiscus, like a motionless flame, in her hair. They hadn't spoken for most of the time they'd been sitting there, and Yvonne, eager to intrude, had been banished to the pantry after several unsuccessful attempts; banished in the face of total silence. She could not understand the silence, why they didn't speak to her, why they didn't speak to each other. On her way to the kitchen, she heard Mavis singing:
One, Two, Three, heh! Look at Mr Lee, Three, Four, Five, heh! Look at him jive. Mr Lee, Mr Lee, Oh Mr Lee, Mr Lee, Mr Lee!