Time's Long Ruin (19 page)

‘Someone else's turn.'

‘You're fielding.'

‘Gavin?'

No reply.

Anna shrugged and ran after it, slowing to a trot, then a walk.

‘Thirty-seven, thirty-eight . . . But Henry wasn't finished, he'd secretly been in love with Kate Arthurson for years.'

I smiled. ‘Yeah, right.'

‘That night he stood beneath her window . . .'

‘Maybe we should swap,' I suggested.

‘It's my turn batting.'

‘But it's not very fair.'

‘Yeah,' Gavin piped up, ‘you always bat.'

‘Because I can.'

‘We should play something else.'

‘What?'

He shrugged. ‘Chasey.'

‘Ah, grow up.'

He stood up. ‘I'm tellin' Mum.'

‘Sook.'

He stormed off, throwing down a gum leaf he'd been tearing into strips.

‘Go and tell Mummy, baby. Forty-three, forty-four . . .'

Anna threw the ball back. She resumed her position beside Eric Hessian's fence and asked, ‘Where's Gavin?'

‘He had a tantrum,' Janice said.

‘Well if he's not playing . . .'

And she followed her brother inside.

‘Sook.'

‘Get stuffed.'

We were left alone in the middle of an almost-dark Thomas Street. We moved for a delivery van that seemed to speed up when it saw us. ‘Should we go in?' I asked Janice.

‘No way, I'm on a roll.'

And so it continued, as the streetlights came on and we started to scratch mossie bites. ‘Fifty-one, fifty-two . . .' Now I had to field as well, which meant, theoretically, that Janice could go on getting runs for days. It reminded me a bit too much of my time with the Croydon Primary Under 10s. Dad was roped in as our coach, not that he knew anything about cricket, or even liked it much. But I was very proud to have my detective dad running things. No one was going to question a man who packed a pistol.

I'd always get out within the first few balls. I saw out a season of ducks, and that was it, no more team sport for me. No more sport. Sport was for the organised, the neat, the well-groomed, for the fit and getting fitter, for people without faults or blemishes. Sport was for people with no imagination. Sport was the beginning and end of everything horrible. It was Adolf Hitler. It was the Black Death and the gulags. Luckily, at school, I got to sit it out. I had a very powerful note in my diary:
To Whom it May Concern, Please be
aware that Henry's left foot is mostly immobile. This may affect his
ability to play sport. Yrs, Ellen Page (Henry's Mum).

I had a teacher in grade three who wouldn't accept this. She used to say, If there's a will there's a way, whatever that meant. Her name was Mrs Underwood. Vanessa Underwood. Bill used to call her Vanessa the Undresser. Once, Janice repeated this in class and Mrs Underwood had her taken to the principal's office. Bill was called in. He explained that Vanessa the Undresser was an act he used to support. Very classy, too. Simulated nudity. But it didn't do Janice any good. She got a week of detentions. Meanwhile, I was made to line up with the soccer balls for dribbling practise. Dribbling. Like a baby. My ball headed across the playground, under the monkey bars and through the gate onto the road.

Still, she'd been warned.

She wasn't going to give up that easy. Where there's a will there's a way. She made me stand in front of the other kids and held my leg as she showed them how to kick a ball. That is my memory of sport: Stalin in stockings, filling the world with fear and perspiration.

As a thousand books went unread in our library.

‘Sixty-one, sixty-two . . .'

‘Janice, I'm going in,' I said.

‘But you're next.'

‘Well don't hit them down the street. Do little ones.'

The little ones weren't much better: two blocks instead of four. And as I hobbled after the ball I remembered fielding for Croydon Primary, chasing the ball as every Under 10 and their parents, brothers, sisters, uncles, orange-cutter and groundsman screamed, ‘Hurry up, come on!' As another kid decided he could do better, and ran past me, scooping up the ball and throwing it back to a collective sigh of relief. As I stopped and looked at Dad – who was waving and giving the victory sign – and returned to my spot.

‘Sixty-nine, seventy . . .'

‘Janice, let's go in.'

‘Oh alright, but I start again at seventy tomorrow.'

I heard our front door close and saw Dad walking down our gravel drive. He passed within a few feet but didn't see us standing in the dark under a bloodwood. He pulled on a jacket, turned up the collar and started off towards Henry Street.

‘Where's he going?' Janice asked.

I smiled. ‘I bet it's the Arthursons.'

‘Why?'

‘Remember what I said, about them stealing from Mister Eckert?'

‘So?'

‘Dad promised him he'd sort it out.'

Janice's eyes lit up. ‘I don't want to miss this.'

‘I've gotta go in.'

‘Come on.'

She left the racquet and ball under the tree and dragged me off. We kept our distance, about a block back, following Dad as he turned into Henry Street and made for the Arthurson's house. At one point he stopped and looked back. We stood motionless and he continued. Soon he turned into their drive, almost skipped up to the front door and rang the bell.

The Arthurson's house was one half of a semi-detached villa, split neatly down the middle by an exposed firewall. It was a neat home – simple, but schizophrenic, like one of a pair of Siamese twins who'd stopped talking to each other. The brick on their side was rendered and painted white, the other side had been left unaltered; their gutters and trims were brown and their neighbour's were grey; their garden was cottage and their neighbour's was modern – all gravel, succulents and cacti. The result was a two-headed hydra – neighbours who shared the same structure but lived on entirely different planets.

Janice and I approached the house under cover of darkness and hid behind a hedge. We watched as the porch light came on and the front door opened. We heard words but they were unclear. ‘Come on,' Janice said, and she led me through a hole in the hedge, pushing me down beneath a lemon tree in the Arthurson's front yard.

‘It's just what Don said,' Dad explained.

‘He's full of shit,' a familiar voice replied, from inside the house.

‘Maybe we could ask the kids,' Dad continued

‘No need for that. My kids wouldn't steal. Listen, Mister Detective, you wanna get all the facts. That fella's a nuisance. What is he, a Yugoslav?'

‘German, but that's beside the – '

‘It isn't. It's their way, to cause trouble. They like starting wars.'

‘He says it's happened two times. He wants your kids to apologise.'

‘Are you kidding? I should go down and break his fucking arm.'

Andrew stepped past his dad and appeared on the porch. ‘G'day, Mister Page.'

‘Hello, Andrew. How's your head?'

‘It's okay. Did Henry get in trouble?'

‘Believe me. He didn't leave the house for a week.'

Janice looked at me and smiled. I frowned. ‘Could you kill him for me?' I whispered.

‘Gladly,' she replied.

Chris Arthurson ruffled his son's hair and said, ‘Go help your mother.'

‘What's wrong?'

‘Just go help your mother.'

Andrew went inside. By now Dad was leaning against a wall. ‘Listen,' he continued, slowly, ‘the only reason I offered to come here was . . . Eckert said he'd ring the police.'

‘This isn't right, Bob. I know my kids.'

‘I'm trying my best. Humour me. Just have a talk to them, and tell them to stay away from his shop. I'll fix up the rest. Can you do that for me?'

The two dads stood silent and still under a yellow globe buzzing with moths. Chris Arthurson shook his head. ‘I just don't see – ' ‘Humour me,' Dad repeated.

‘Alright, I'll tell them to stay away. Not because I think they took anything, just because I agree with you, y' gotta try keep the peace.'

‘Good. Thanks, Chris. No hard feelings over the . . . lemon?'

They both laughed, and then Chris Arthurson squeezed Dad's shoulder and shook his hand. ‘He's got a bloody good aim,' he said.

‘I don't believe it,' I whispered.

‘What?' Janice asked.

‘Why doesn't he tell him what Andrew – '

‘Ssh!'

Dad looked in our direction. I was sure he'd heard us. He said goodbye and walked off down Henry Street. We followed him at a distance and when we turned into Thomas Street he was standing there, waiting for us, arms crossed, his face looking yellow, black and evil under the streetlight.

‘Thanks a lot,' he said.

We were speechless.

‘How would that have looked, eh?'

I shrugged. ‘Sorry.'

‘Sorry, Mister Page.'

He turned and walked off. We followed, dragging our feet, as he started mumbling something to himself. ‘Solve everybody's bloody problems . . . did I ask for this?'

Janice looked at me and smiled.

‘Shut up,' I whispered.

‘At last, Henry realised he would never have Kate. She was a lady, gentle, refined, and he was a poor, lonely cripple.'

‘Piss off.'

‘Henry!' Dad growled.

Janice stood on the end of her drive. ‘Now I'm in for it,' she said. ‘“Why didn't you let your brother and sister bat, Janice?” You're lucky you're an only child, Page.'

‘Perhaps.'

‘Perhaps nothin'.'

She disappeared into the darkness, to face her own music, and I caught up with Dad on our front porch. ‘It was her idea,' I said.

‘Just the same.'

As we took off our shoes we could smell Mum's stew floating down the hallway and out the front door. More of the same: cheap beef, carrots and a hundred peas swimming in a sea of lumpy gravy . . . and Dad shaking his head as we settled down to eat.

The next morning, Janice wasn't happy. Yes, we (me, Anna and Gavin) agreed to play cricket again, but only if . . .

So, there was Janice, standing on the outer edge of our bitumen oval, shouting orders as I prepared to bat. ‘If it touches your leg you're out.'

‘No LBW,' I replied.

‘It's the rules.'

‘No LBW,' Anna agreed, pulling burrs off the tennis ball. Gavin was ready behind the fruit-crate wicket that Mr Bilston had unknowingly donated. ‘No LBW.'

Janice wasn't happy. If we kept changing the rules we could keep her out forever. It was a conspiracy, but she had no choice. ‘Henry can run the game,' Liz had told Janice, when she'd gone in the previous night.

‘Henry doesn't understand cricket,' she'd replied.

‘He used to play.'

‘Not properly.'

Anna started off with a slow, straight delivery. Here was my chance. I smashed the ball with every ounce of energy I could muster. It flew through the air, past the Greek church, past Cedar and Harriet streets, eventually settling in someone's front yard. Janice looked at me. ‘I know what you're doing,' she said.

‘What?'

She ran as slowly as she could, looking back to pull a face and stick out her tongue. ‘One, two . . .' I called out.

‘That's not the whole way,' she said.

‘It's shorter for me and the little ones.'

‘Bullshit.'

I heard applause from the footpath and turned to look. Doctor Gunn smiled at me and said, ‘Keep going.' He was wearing canvas pants and a tweed jacket covered in lint balls. I stood staring at him, unsure.

‘Run,' Gavin said.

‘Run,' Doctor Gunn repeated.

So I walked, quickly, to get my runs. He applauded again. ‘When you coming back to finish our library?' he asked.

I didn't reply.

‘Henry?'

In front of my own home. I could go in and get Mum. I could tell her everything. Or was that just the point? Was he testing me? I should, I thought. I will. I'll stick to the facts. She'll ring Dad and he'll be home in ten minutes. Then they'll take him away and lock him up and I'll never have to worry about him again.

‘Henry, when are you coming back?'

‘I'm not.'

‘Why not?'