The Beloved Page 7

  Back in grade two.

  ‘Roberta is young, Mrs Lightfoot,’ said Mrs Potts. ‘She’d have to be an exceptional student to skip half a year under any circumstances, let alone having had polio. Give her time to settle and find her own pace.’

  ‘Roberta doesn’t have a pace. She needs pushing. I know she can cope.’

  ‘I’d rather she thrived,’ said Mrs Potts.

  ‘She’ll be fine. She needs to know she’s as good as the next person, or better. Putting her back to grade two will convince her she’s not.’

  Mrs Potts took off her glasses and rubbed them with a hanky. ‘Mrs Lightfoot, Roberta may be able to handle some aspects of grade three but frankly, her grasp of arithmetic is poor. If this improves dramatically over the next few months we may reassess her situation but right now I simply want her to be able to negotiate grade two.’

  ‘She’ll improve,’ Mama promised. ‘Dramatically.’

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ she said to Dad, forgetting to be angry with him. ‘Me a straight-A math student and you an accountant. How did we produce a child so dense with numbers?’

  ‘She’s only seven, Lily May.’

  ‘It’s not calculus.’

  ‘Stop pushing.’

  ‘Somebody has to.’

  I did feel like a dummy having to repeat again but Coronation School was different from Melbourne. Kids came from everywhere, bringing funny accents and strange habits. There were older kids and younger kids in my class and I wasn’t the only one repeating, although I was the only one who couldn’t play schoolyard games. I didn’t mind so much; I was just happy not to be teased. The wet season was over and Moresby’s colours were fading but pictures were everywhere and while the other kids played, I drew. Kids sprawled under the poinciana tree, kids playing softball, hopscotch or marbles, teachers on playground duty. It didn’t matter what they were doing; their colours and their faces told their stories.

  One face we’d stopped seeing much of these days was Dad’s. He worked most weekends, building up an export business as well as importing, with big orders from Australia and Japan for copra, tea, coffee and cocoa. Tim spent weekends with a friend who lived down the road so it was often just Mama and me, swimming, driving along the coast or taking the jeep inland up hills and along rivers. She had a new camera with dials and knobs, and was forever taking photos. Even in black and white you could see the sheen of the frangipani, the wrinkles in the hibiscus and coconuts that looked so real you wanted to crack them open and munch on the sweet stuff inside. Some weekends she went skin-diving with Doug Davies and his wife. Whenever she got out the goggles and snorkel I’d go crazy with envy. The Davies had an underwater camera and the pictures Mama brought home made me long to see for myself the wonders beneath the sea.

  ‘Everything falls away when you’re under the water, Bertie. All the faded, ordinary things of life. It’s a dazzling, beautiful blue-green world out there, swarming with fish of every size from tiny fellows no bigger than a fingernail right up to giant rays.’

  ‘Please take me, Mama.’

  ‘I can’t, it’s too dangerous. There are sharks and sea snakes and stonefish. Maybe in a couple of years.’

  Instead, when Mama was skin-diving, I went with Dad to his office where he taught me how to use Moira’s typewriter, address envelopes, put bills inside and stamp them.

  ‘You’re going to make someone a great secretary one of these days, CP.’

  ‘No I’m not.’ I pushed aside the envelopes and went to work on a picture of a giant fish filled with tiny people.

  Dad looked at my drawing and waggled my plait.

  ‘Do you hate it, Dad?’

  ‘No. How could I hate anything you do?’

  ‘I’m going to be an artist when I grow up, like Aunt Tempe.’

  ‘Oh, are you?’ Dad combed his moustache with his fingers.

  ‘Mama wants me to be somebody.’

  ‘You’re already somebody, sweetheart. You’re our Roberta.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Roberta Lindsay Lightfoot, world famous artist.’

  Two months after we arrived in Port Moresby, I ditched the calliper forever.

  ‘We’ll celebrate,’ said Mama. ‘Drag your father from the office and go on a picnic. All of us.’

  We had a calliper-burying ceremony. Dad dug a hole and snapped his heels together. Atten-shun! Squa-a-a-ad salute! I leaned on my sticks, tossed in a fistful of dirt and watched in satisfaction as Dad filled in the hole. After the burial we went on a picnic. Mama had wanted me to bring a friend.

  ‘I don’t have a friend,’ I said.

  ‘But I’ve heard you talk about Diane and Pamela.’

  ‘They’re not friends, they’re just kids at school.’

  ‘Bertie, you must have friends. Invite a few classmates home to play.’

  Play what – hopscotch? Anyway Diane had already tried that.

  ‘Mrs Potts said we should play with you,’ she said, one day at playlunch. ‘What can you play?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘We could . . . well, we could skip while you hold the rope?’

  I shook my head.

  She chewed her lip.

  ‘It’s all right, Diane,’ I said. ‘I don’t have to play.’ I walked away, wondering if they were watching me and whispering about my boot. They weren’t allowed to say anything to my face but it didn’t stop people thinking. I saw what kids did behind Errol Prichard’s back. He looked like a rabbit with his mouth hitched up to his nose and he talked funny. Some kids copied him, others felt sorry. I hated pity but I couldn’t help feeling sorry for Errol because his problem was right there in front of you all the time. Anyway, bullying was worse, and as long as people left me alone, friends didn’t matter.

  ‘I’m all right, Mama.’

  ‘You’re not all right and we’re going to fix it.’

  In the meantime she packed a picnic and we crammed into the jeep with the dog and drove into the cool of the hills. Tim and Snifter went everywhere together and as the jeep ground up the steep dirt road, Snifter leaned into Tim. Up and up we went, past the thundering waterfalls of Rona that made our electricity and on to Sogeri, a pretty village surrounded by rubber plantations. We found a spot by a stream and Dad set up an umbrella and our folding card table. He’d chopped eighteen inches off the legs to make it more useful for sitting on the ground and copped an earful from Mama.

  ‘How are we supposed to play canasta with the Davies at that?’

  Dad scratched his head. ‘I dunno. Maybe we can sit on the floor.’

  ‘What? Four of us squatting on our haunches? What are we supposed to do with our legs?’

  Dad mulled it over. ‘I could cut holes in the floor. Our legs could dangle in the breeze. Nice and cool.’

  But it was good for the picnic and after a swim we munched on Mama’s sandwiches, lemonade and a chocolate cake she baked specially.

  ‘Make a wish,’ she said, handing me the knife.

  I dragged it through the creamy filling. Make me normal, God. Make me like everyone else.

  One day we came home from school and Snifter wasn’t there. Mama said she hadn’t seen him all day so she went and asked Willie.

  He shrugged. ‘No dog. All day, no dog.’

  Tim went up and down the road calling but when Snifter didn’t come, Mama drove us around in the jeep until dark, looking. Snifter didn’t come home that night and he wasn’t there the next morning.

  ‘We’ll just have to hope he’s back by the time you get home from school this afternoon,’ said Mama. ‘He’s probably out having an adventure.’

  I wanted to believe her but Snifter had never gone off on his own before.

  ‘What if he’s been hit by a car or bitten by a snake and he’s out in the scrub in terrible pain?’ said Tim, struggling not to cry.

  Snifter wasn’t home after school and for the next three days Tim and Mama searched, knocked on doors and left notes on telegraph poles. Mama even put an a
d in the newspaper with Snifter’s photo. No-one had seen him.

  ‘Gone pinis,’ said Dad sadly. ‘Forever, I’m afraid. Three days now and no sign. I reckon he’s been stolen. His pedigree makes him worth a lot of money.’

  Tim went so pale I thought he might be sick.

  ‘So whoever took him,’ Dad said quickly, ‘will certainly look after him.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mama. ‘They’ll give him his favourite food and he won’t even want to come home.’

  Tim said nothing. He didn’t believe them. I didn’t either.

  One afternoon we came home to find Mama washing up a pile of dirty dishes. ‘That wretched Willie,’ she said. ‘He hasn’t put in an appearance all day.’

  When Dad came home, he dropped his bag on the table and took Mama in his arms.

  ‘I’m glad you’re home, Eddie,’ she said.

  ‘I’m glad you’re glad, Bean.’ He landed a smacking kiss on her mouth. ‘Did you miss me?’

  ‘I don’t mean that. It’s Willie. I’ve been backwards and forwards to the boi-haus all day knocking and calling but there’s been no answer. Either he’s sick or he’s not there. Would you go and check?’

  Dad dropped his arms. ‘Okay.’

  A few minutes later he came back. ‘I can’t see much; the light bulbs are smashed. But he seems to have gone pinis. Left a bad smell. It’s too dark to see what it is. I’ll deal with it in the morning.’

  Mama stuck her hands on her hips. ‘Gone? How come . . . gone?’

  Dad shrugged. ‘He wouldn’t be the first one to shoot through. We’ll have to find someone else, em tasol.’

  ‘That’s all?’ said Mama. ‘Find another haus-boi just like that?’ She snapped her fingers.

  ‘Someone’ll turn up. I’ll put the word out. Anyway, you weren’t happy with Willie.’

  ‘He was better than nobody.’

  Mr and Mrs Davies arrived the next morning to take Mama skin-diving.

  ‘I can’t go,’ she said. ‘Willie’s disappeared and I’m it for housework.’

  ‘Our haus-boi’s sister’s looking for work,’ said Mrs Davies. ‘She arrived from Milne Bay last week and has been helping her brother. She’s very good; so is her English.’

  ‘A woman would be nice,’ said Mama.

  ‘I’ll send her over now,’ said Mrs Davies.

  Mama went down to clean out the boi-haus and Dad started on the breakfast dishes. ‘Grab a tea towel, CP, if you can remember what it looks like. Tim, have a go at the beds, will you? Let’s hope the meri gets here quick.’

  We’d nearly finished the dishes when a weird sound came from the backyard. Dad dropped the dishmop. ‘Is that your mother?’ He hurried down the stairs. From the verandah I saw Mama leaning on the side of the boi-haus throwing up into the dirt. Dad held her around her middle while she sicked up again. Tim ran down the stairs.

  Mama waved at him. ‘No, Tim. No. Stay away.’

  He stopped for a moment, then circled around her and went into the boi-haus.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Mama gasped. ‘Stop him, Ed. Go after him!’

  Dad shot into the boi-haus, Mama tottering along behind. For a moment nothing happened, then I heard a howl, high and thin, that lifted the hair on my neck. Again it came, like wind in the wires. Dad staggered from the boi-haus with Timmy dangling in his arms. He took him upstairs to his bedroom.

  ‘You are not to go outside,’ Mama told me.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Later, Bertie. Right now I need a shower.’

  I looked at the dark mouth of the boi-haus. What was in there?

  As I stared, I heard someone humming, and a lady appeared around the side of our house. She had a cloud of frizzy hair and her bosom and tummy met in a soft mound under a pink and yellow dress. She looked up, saw me and smiled, and despite the creepiness of the boi-haus, I smiled back.

  She came up the stairs. ‘I’m not allowed outside,’ I said. ‘There’s something bad in the boi-haus. It made my mama sick and my brother cry.’

  The meri’s smile faded. She dropped her bilum bag on the step and went back down to the boi-haus. She was inside a long time and when she came out she was holding a hessian sack. ‘Where taubada?’ she said.

  I went for Dad. ‘The new meri’s here. She wants to see you.’

  Mama and Dad looked at each other. Then Dad went downstairs to talk to the meri. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but next thing Dad went under the house for a shovel. He and the meri disappeared behind the boi-haus and moments later I heard the shovel crunch into the dry earth.

  Behind me, in his bedroom, I heard Timmy cry.

  Mama, her hair still damp from the shower, sat at the kitchen table and took our new meri’s hand. ‘Thank you, Josie.’

  ‘Come here, CP,’ said Dad. He pulled me into the crook of his arm and dropped his forehead on mine. ‘I’m afraid I’ve bad news. Snifter’s been found and I’m sorry to tell you, but he’s dead.’

  My middle seemed to shrink. ‘What happened?’

  He stroked my hair. Mama stared at her feet. Josie looked around, her eyes taking in the cobwebs in the corner and the newspapers on the floor.

  ‘What happened, Dad?’

  ‘He . . . Willie . . .’

  Josie patted my cheek with a soft hand. ‘Dog make plenty good kai-kai, piccaninny. Em tasol. No more dog. All gone.’

  Kai-kai? . . . Food?

  Snifter was food?

  ‘Next time better you get native dog,’ she said. ‘Too tough, no good to eat.’

  Snifter, our little dog, our beautiful Snifter. Upside down in a cooking pot, legs sticking up, eyes glazed. Snifter murdered. Eaten. Snifter would have trusted Willie, followed him, his tail sticking up, nose scouring the ground. How could Willie do that to our dog? To us? I wrenched away from Dad. Mama grabbed me.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Bertie.’

  ‘No, Mama, no!’

  ‘He’ll be happy now. In heaven with all his doggy friends.’

  ‘How could Willie do that?’

  ‘I don’t know, sugar. It’s a different world. People do things we don’t understand.’

  ‘I hate him.’

  ‘So do I, right now.’

  ‘Forever.’

  ‘No, not forever. We can’t be so busy hating people there’s no time for anything else.’

  ‘I’m going to hate him for ever and ever.’

  ‘I wouldn’t recommend it.’

  Tim lay on his bed, facing the wall. His colours were terrible, worse than I’d ever seen. I sat on his bed and rubbed his back like Mama did when we were sick, but it didn’t work. When Mama made him get up for dinner he walked around hunched over like an old man. He didn’t go to school the next day, and the day after – when he had to – he didn’t speak to anyone. I had to do something.

  ‘Should we get him another dog?’ I asked Mama.

  ‘Not now, Bertie. It’s Snifter he’s missing.’

  ‘What about the barnyard set?’ Tim had seen a barnyard set in Steamies, with fences and gates and pretend grass, barns, horses and cows.

  ‘It’s very expensive.’

  ‘But it might help. How much does it cost?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘You can have my pocket money.’

  ‘That’s sweet, Bertie, but it’s worth more than a year of your pocket money.’

  I went to my room and emptied my piggybank. Two shillings and ninepence. I definitely needed more and there was only one way to get it. Sell something. Adults got money by selling things. Why couldn’t I? I had snakes and ladders, ludo, plastic pop beads, a kewpie doll. I took them all, plus the money, to Mama. ‘Sell these.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Oh, that’s lovely, Bertie. But it still wouldn’t be enough.’

  I went back to my room and looked around. It had to be the best. Moose and Molly and my blackboard. I hated the thought of losing Moose and Molly but if that’s what it took to make Tim feel better, I had to let them go.

  �
��You’d sell Moose and Molly?’ Mama said.

  ‘Yes.’

  She sighed.

  Still not enough? There was only one thing left: Aunt Tempe’s beautiful paint set. I brought it to Mama.

  ‘You’re really serious,’ she said. ‘Well, I guess it’s enough. Look, I don’t think we’d get much for Moose and Molly so you keep them but the rest . . . if you’re sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  The next night Dad came home with the barnyard set.

  ‘Did you have to sell everything?’ I asked him.

  ‘I’m afraid so, CP. Oh, except for this.’ He rummaged in his Gladstone bag and brought out the paint box. ‘Nobody wanted it. But the rest of your things brought exactly the right amount for Tim’s present. Lucky, huh?’

  I took the barnyard set to Tim. ‘Now will you feel better?’

  Tears gathered in his eyes. He nodded and a flash of pink appeared on his chest, but then the cold grey swallowed it again.

  The next morning, early, Dad roused Tim from bed and took him downstairs. A few minutes later, I heard gunshots – Crack! Crack! Crack! one after another. I grabbed my sticks and went to see. Dad held Tim while he pumped bullets into a new Tom Piper. He wasn’t hunched over any more but standing up straight.

  ‘Me!’ I shouted. ‘Me too.’

  Dad let Tim have six more shots, then he put the gun in my hands and held me. ‘Go on then. Give it your best.’

  I squeezed the trigger. The gun thumped in my hand and my ears nearly fell off. Bang! Bang! In the neck. Bang! His ear. I giggled. Bang! His—

  ‘Edric!’

  The gun went off. I missed.

  ‘How could you?’ Mama screeched. ‘Our children! A gun, for God’s sake. Put the damn thing away and never let me see you doing that again.’

  Tim and I looked at each other. His mouth didn’t move but he was smiling. Willie was dead.

  Dead, dead, dead.

  Chapter Eight

  Mama perched on the edge of Dad’s big wooden desk, set on the coolest side of the verandah, her long legs bare beneath a red silk brunch coat. ‘I’m redundant,’ she said. ‘Josie does everything. I need to find a job.’