Time's Long Ruin (8 page)

Then I'd return to the desk and do it all again. I'd do this until the books ran out, or until five, whichever came first, until Doctor Gunn emerged with his last patient, shut the door behind them and put up the closed sign. At which point he'd take two shillings from his change-pocket, put them in my hand and close my fingers around them.

On this particular day I was going to find out how much Doctor Gunn really loved his books. He took a key out of his pocket and opened a door that led into a disused shop adjoining his surgery. I followed him into a dark, damp-smelling room with its front windows boarded up. He switched on a light and all I could see were piles and piles of books. Against the two side walls someone had put up shelves that still smelled of paint.

‘You got some free time these holidays?' he asked.

‘What do you mean?' I replied.

‘I want to expand my library, so people can come in and browse as they wait. Maybe turn it into a bookshop one day, or an exchange.'

I picked up a few books from one of the piles: algebra and the flora of New Zealand, novels with titles like
Affairs of
the Heart
, and cookbooks, the Australian outback and Irish castles, fishing, physiology and you guessed it, more God books.

‘Where did you get them?' I asked.

‘Usual place,' he replied, picking up an encyclopaedia and blowing off the dust. ‘Library disposals. Book sales.'

I shrugged. ‘Okay. What do you want me to do?'

And that's how I found a career in books. I started straight away, allocating two shelves to each letter of the alphabet. I sorted by title in fiction (north wall) and non-fiction (south wall). There was no point sorting by authors no one had heard of. Soon it became apparent that each letter would need three or maybe four shelves. I picked up the volumes, dusted them off and put them in the correct spot. Doctor Gunn sat on a chair in the corner, silently watching me, gazing, putting his hands in his pockets and occasionally almost drifting off to sleep. At one point the bell rang on the door next door and a customer entered.

‘Hold on,' Doctor Gunn called, without rising.

I looked at him. ‘I'm alright, I know what I'm doing.' But he didn't reply. He just sat there, and I continued sorting. ‘Hold on,' he called again, eventually standing up and going next door.

Half an hour later, after seeing his customer off, he came back in, picked up a book and sat in his chair.

‘I've already done a pile,' I said.

‘Good,' he replied, flicking through a book of photos of the
Queen Mary
. ‘They used to use boys,' he said, holding up a picture of a riveter at work on the hull. ‘The inside cavities were too small for a man so boys like you had to crawl inside and hold the plate for them to rivet into.'

‘How did they see?' I asked.

‘I'm not sure,' he replied. ‘They left a hole for them to get in and out, but do you know what happened, Henry?'

‘What?'

‘Sometimes the boys would crawl into the cavity and go up . . . up. And they'd never find their way out. Ship breakers have found skeletons.'

I stopped sorting, shocked. ‘Why didn't they cut it open?'

‘They were big ships, Henry. Big ships and little boys. Life was cheap, especially when you were poor.'

Bless the riveters. God, tell me it didn't last for too many days,
or weeks . . .

Doctor Gunn fell silent, looking at his book, looking at me.

‘Shop.'

The bell rang and I heard Dad's voice. ‘Henry.' He appeared in the doorway, grinning and loosening the tartan tie Mum had given me to give him for his birthday. ‘A man needs to be a detective to find you, Henry.'

His shoulders were square, geometrical, like someone had left a coathanger in his jacket. His face was lightly stubbled; he always said that the Page men only needed to shave every other day. Mum agreed. Small glands, she said. Still, Dad smiled, at least I haven't got hair growing over my shoulders and down my back.

Dad's pants sagged. He'd tried to put another hole in his belt but couldn't get the poker through. His pants cuffs were turned up and up again, and threaded. Mum was always at him to pull up his pants, but he just replied, ‘If you had to carry what I do . . .'

Dad stepped inside and looked at Doctor Gunn. ‘I gotta make a time, George. Every morning when I wake . . .' As he massaged his neck and moved it from side to side.

Doctor Gunn closed his book and sat up. ‘Early Saturday's always the best. I open at eight, if you can be here then.'

‘Eight.' Dad looked at me. ‘You can get me up.'

Doctor Gunn stood up. ‘Henry's helping me with my library.' At which point he rehashed his vision for his new Croydon book exchange. Dad wasn't too interested. The bell rang, a humpbacked grandmother entered and he used this as an excuse to drag me out.

We crossed the road and stood outside the grocery shop on the opposite corner. With my index finger I traced a bottle of Buckley's cough mixture painted onto Mr Eckert's window as Mr Eckert himself came outside with his hands in his apron pocket. ‘Bob,' he said, grabbing my dad by the sleeve, ‘we've got problems again.'

Then he told Dad about the Arthurson kids. How they'd been in his shop again this morning; how Mary-Anne, his wife, was reaching up for a bottle of White Crow sauce for Mrs Fletcher when she turned around to see the little blighters handling the lollies. ‘Hands off,' she'd said, and they'd backed away. But then, a few moments later, when her back was turned again, she heard another noise and looked around to see them running from the shop.

‘And what did she see?' Don Eckert asked Dad.

‘What?'

‘A packet of Sunbuds and caramels sitting on the floor.'

‘But that doesn't prove anything,' Dad explained.

Don Eckert smiled. ‘Mrs Fletcher saw the whole thing.'

‘The whole thing?'

‘Stuffin' gear in their pockets. Mary-Anne checked. Six packs of Sunbuds missing.'

Dad sighed and loosened his tie even more. ‘Alright, Don, I'll talk to the Arthursons.'

‘Good-o. It's not an isolated thing you know. We've had it before. And so's the Acorn deli. Ain't it funny, eh – ' He stopped to whisper closely in Dad's ear. ‘They send 'em to one of those posh schools. What is it?'

‘Frome Street Grammar.'

‘Just goes to show, doesn't it?'

‘What?'

‘Sometimes less is more, eh?'

‘See what I can do, Don.'

And with that Dad almost pulled his arm from Mr Eckert and walked off, muttering.

‘What is it?' I asked, catching up.

Dad shook his head. ‘Silly old bastard.' He sat on a bench and waited until Mr Eckert had gone inside. ‘Those Arthurson kids, what are their names?' he asked.

‘Kate and Andrew.'

‘You talk to them much?'

I shook my head. ‘No.' Then I remembered the 4.30 train. Me, sitting in my tree with my whistle, as Con closed the gates and the city train slowed for the station, as doors opened and Kate and Andrew emerged in their hats and blazers, as Andrew walked over to me and asked, ‘You still up there?'

‘I'm helping Con.'

‘Why?'

As I shrugged, the Arthursons laughed and ran off down Day Terrace.

‘No,' I replied, looking at Dad.

Dad put his hand on my knee. ‘You're still deputised, you know.'

‘I know.'

‘Want to help me with this one?'

Real police work. He explained what I needed to do. Discreet enquiries. Nothing specific. And if I was asked why I was asking I should just reply, ‘Nothing to be worried about, just part of the service.'

We started with Joe Skurray the baker.

‘You ever lose stock, Mr Skurray?' I asked.

Joe just smiled and looked at Dad. ‘What's this, Don again?'

‘No,' I replied, trying to regain control. ‘From time to time we just ask. It's a community service.'

Mr Skurray looked at me and half-laughed. ‘It's Don Eckert,' he replied. ‘Listen, DC Henry, I've told him he needs to put his sweets up out of the way. And let me guess, it was Kate and Andrew?'

‘So he says.'

Dad nudged me. ‘No it wasn't. It could've been anyone, couldn't it, Henry?'

‘It wasn't Kate and Andrew, Mr Skurray.'

But Mr Skurray just looked knowingly at Dad. ‘You know why this is, Bob?'

‘Why?'

‘Don had his kids at Frome Street Grammar. Then there was the Depression. He had another shop but had to close it down. He couldn't afford the school. So his kids had to muck in with the rest of them. See, the Eckerts are German. Germans are like elephants, they remember things for years and years.'

I asked in Mr Bilston's fruit shop and the Acorn deli but no one had had a shoplifter, so we returned to see Mr Eckert. ‘We've covered the length of Elizabeth Street,' Dad said to Don, taking off his hat and shaking his head, ‘and it looks like you're not the only one.'

Don smiled. ‘See, I told you, Bob.'

‘I'm gonna visit the Arthursons, Don. I'm gonna sit those kids down and give them a talking to and scare them a little. I'm gonna tell them that your shop's out of bounds. How's that?'

‘We should make them pay.'

Dad stroked his chin with his long, brown fingers. ‘Yes, the problem is, we need proof.'

‘Mrs Fletcher.'

‘And then it'd need to go to court.'

‘So?'

‘You think they'd just admit it? You think that type ever do? They've got money, they know the law. They've got friends, Don, old scholars. You know what I mean? You want to take it to court?'

Mr Eckert stopped to think. ‘You give 'em a good scare, Bob.'

‘I will, believe me. All I ask is, maybe put your sweets behind the counter.'

‘Yes, I will, and if I see 'em again I'll tell yer.'

‘Good.'

We walked home past the fish-man, filleting a piece of whiting for a Robert Street grandmother as she stood talking to him at her front door. He worked on a small table that strapped around his neck, using his knife slowly, rhythmically, as his body moved with his hands. As we passed he called to us, ‘Anything today, Mister Page?'

‘What you got?'

‘Tommy ruffs.'

‘Bring 'em around, we'll have a look.'

We turned the corner into Thomas Street and saw Rosa, standing at her front gate, crying. A man in a linen suit stood in front of her, waving a piece of paper in the air. His body moved closer to her as he raised his voice and used his finger to stab repeatedly at the air, occasionally poking Rosa's shoulder and causing her to step back.

‘Hey,' Dad yelled, in his best copper's voice.

Rosa and the man in the linen suit turned to look at him. Dad shot across the road, straight into the path of a mud-splattered Austin that had to swerve to avoid him. I followed a few steps behind, looking across to our house to see if Mum had noticed.

‘Detective Constable Bob Page,' Dad began, presenting his charge card.

The man in the linen suit refocussed his attention on my father. ‘Good,' he said, attempting to smooth down his cropped hair. ‘Have a look at this.' He led Dad over to his car, a near-new black Rover, perfectly maintained except for a large dent in the front fender. ‘That's what her lot did,' he explained, pointing to the dent.

‘Who?' Dad asked.

‘Her lot, all those bloody dagos, parked from one end of Croydon to the other. I had my car out on the street. Next morning when I got up to go to work . . .'

He presented the quote for repairs to my father. ‘Who does she think's gonna pay, me?'

Dad handed it back. ‘Yes.'

‘No bloody fear.' The man stepped towards Rosa and handed her the quote. She raised her hands and started waving them about.

‘Come on,' the man said, getting angrier.

Rosa looked at Dad. ‘Please, Mister Page . . .'

Dad tried to reason with him. ‘That's enough.'

Rosa took a small step back and the man closed the gap between them. He opened her apron pocket and forced the quote inside. Dad stepped between them. He took the quote from her pocket and said, ‘You go in, Rosa.'

Rosa squeezed his hand in both of hers, turned and walked up towards her house, past the healing tree.

Healing. The breath and smell of Alex Pedavoli venting from each pore. As Rosa took a deep breath she sensed him everywhere around her, blowing in her front window, resting on ledges, trapped in flywire and lemon-scented clothes hanging on the line. She could still hear him, or not hear him, as she stared out to sea, waiting for her two boys to surface. Con appeared, waving to her, as she cupped her hands: ‘Where is he?' He couldn't hear her. He looked around and then dived, and then came up for air. Again and again, for a full half-hour. He fought the current trying to drag him out to sea and eventually returned to shore. As he came up the beach Rosa's legs collapsed beneath her, her body crumpling into a ball. He knelt down and held her. Then ran back into the water, checking his watch to see how long it had been. In and out of the ocean for an hour. The times written on the blackboard in his gatehouse.