He had evidently completed whatever he had been set to do, for he had his workman's bag in his hand and was pulling his street clothes out of it.
"Hullo," he said, smiling at her without a shadow of self-awareness, as if he had no idea of his own beauty or of its inevitable impact on others.
"Hullo," Mary replied, not smiling; something wet touched her hand, and she glanced down to see her sherry slopping over the rim of the forgotten glass.
"You're spilling your drink," he observed.
"Yes, isn't that idiotic of me?" she ventured, trying to fix her features into a pleasant mask.
He had no answer for that, but stood watching her in his bright, interested way, and smiling.
"Would you like to earn a little extra money?" Mary inquired eventually, staring at him search-ingly.
He looked puzzled. "Eh?"
She flushed, her dark eyes surveying him a little ironically. "My grass needs cutting badly and my man hasn't been in a month, I doubt if I'll ever see him again. I'm very proud of my garden and I hate to see it like this, but it's extremely difficult to get someone to cut the grass. So I thought, seeing you here working overtime on a Friday, that you might be in need of a little extra money. Would you be able to come tomorrow and cut my grass? I have a tractor mower, so it's really more a question of time than effort."
"Eh?" he repeated, still smiling, but not quite so broadly.
She twitched her shoulders impatiently. "Oh, for heaven's sake! If you don't want the work, say so! I merely want to know if you'd like to come and cut my grass tomorrow. I'll pay you more than Mr. Markham does."
He walked across to the gap in the paling fence and peered through into her yard curiously, then nodded. "Yes, it does need cutting, doesn't it? I can cut it for you."
She slipped back through to her own side of the fence and turned to face him. "Thank you. I appreciate it, and I assure you I'll make it well worth your while. Just come to the back door tomorrow morning and I'll give you your instructions."
"All right, Missus," he answered gravely.
"Don't you want to know my name?" she asked.
"I suppose so," he smiled.
His veneer of permanent amusement flicked her on the raw, and she flushed again. "My name is Miss Horton!" she snapped. "What's your name, young man?"
"Tim Melville."
"Then I'll see you tomorrow morning, Mr. Melville. Goodbye, and thank you."
"Bye bye," he said, smiling.
When she turned at the top of her patio steps to look back into Mrs. Parker's yard, he had gone. Her sherry had gone too, the last of it spilled when she absently turned the glass upside down in her hurry to escape that innocent blue gaze.
Five
The Seaside Hotel was a very popular drinking place among the citizens of Randwick. They came to it from all parts of the big, sprawling suburb, from Randwick proper and Coogee and Clovelly and even Maroubra. It served an excellent brand of beer, beautifully chilled, and there was plenty of room to spread, but whatever the reason for its popularity, there was not a moment of its opening life that was not busy and cheerful with the noises of contented beer drinkers. Several stories high, it had walls of pure white stucco, and between them and its Alhambra-like row of arches across the front, it looked something like a massive hacienda. Perched two hundred feet above the ocean that lay in front of it and not half a mile away, it commanded a magnificent view of Coogee Beach, one of the smaller surfing beaches in the eastern suburbs. Most of the drinkers stood outside the public bar on the long red veranda, which was plunged into deep shade from three in the afternoon. On a hot evening it was a perfect spot to drink, for the sun set behind the hill at the back of the pub, and the sea breeze puffed in off the luminous blue Pacific without a thing to hinder it.
Ron Melville was standing on the veranda with his two best drinking mates, his eyes alternating between his watch and the beach far below. Tim was late; it was nearly eight o'clock and he ought to have been there by six-thirty at the outside. Ron was more annoyed than worried, for long experience had taught him that worrying over Tim was a good way to train for an early heart attack.
The short Sydney twilight was at its peak, and the Norfolk Island pines bordering the sandstone beach promenade had turned from dark green to black. The tide was coming in and the surf was getting up into a roar, spreading itself in a spent sheet of bubbles far up the sloping white sand, and the shadows were slipping further and further out across the water. The buses came down the hill alongside the beach park, and the bus stop was on the corner far below; Ron watched a bus squeal to a halt at the stop and passed his eyes over the disembarking passengers, looking for Tim's unmistakable yellow head. It was there, so Ron turned away immediately.
"There's Tim on that bus, so I think I'll go in and get him a beer. Another round?" he asked casually.
By the time he emerged again the street lights were turned on, and Tim was standing smiling at Ron's mates.
"Hullo, Pop," he said to Ron, smiling.
"G'day, mate, where've you been?" his father demanded sourly.
"I had to finish up a job. Harry didn't want to come back on Monday."
"Well, we can do with the overtime."
"I got another job, too," Tim said importantly as he took the glass of beer from his father and downed it in one long gulp. "That was great! Can I have another one, Pop?"
"In a minute. What other job?"
"Oh, that! The lady next door wants me to cut her grass tomorrow."
"Next door to where we were today."
Curly Campbell sniggered. "Did youse ask her where she wanted her grass cut, Tim? Inside or outside?"
"Shut up, Curly, you drongo!" Ron snarled irritably. "You know Tim don't understand that sort of talk!"
"Her grass is too long and it needs cutting," Tim explained.
"Did you say you'd do it, Tim?" Ron asked.
"Yes, tomorrow morning. She said she was going to pay me, so I thought you wouldn't mind."
Ron stared at his son's exquisite face, cynically. If the lady in question had any ideas, five minutes with Tim would squelch them. Nothing cooled their ardor faster than discovering Tim wasn't the full quid, or, if that didn't turn them off, they soon found out that trying to seduce Tim was a lost cause, since he had no concept of what women were for or about. Ron had trained his son to flee the moment a woman got too excited or tried some sexy little come-on; Tim was very susceptible to a suggestion of fear, and he could be taught to fear anything.
"Can I have another beer,' Pop?" Tim asked again.
"Righto, son. Go and ask Florrie-for a schooner. I reckon you've earned it."
Curly Campbell and Dave O'Brien watched his tall, slender form disappear under the arches.
"I've known youse for twenty bloody years, Ron," Curly said, "and I still haven't worked out who Tim gets his looks from."
Ron grinned. "I dunno either, mate. Tim's a throw-back to someone we've never heard of, I reckon."
The Melvilles, pere etfils, left the Seaside a little before nine and walked briskly down past Coogee Oval to the row of brightly lit milk bars, fun parlors, and wine shops at the far end of the beach park. Ron herded his son past them quickly as they cut from Arden Street across to Surf Street, making sure that the hungry glances Tim evoked in the lolling tarts and trollops had no chance to develop.
The Melville house was in Surf Street but not in the posh section on top of the hill, where Nobby Clark the jockey lived. They walked up the one-in-three pitch of the incredibly steep hill easily, neither of them so much as breathing heavily, for they both worked in the building trade and were in superb physical condition. Halfway down the other side of the hill in the hollow which lay between the ritzy top and the far hump of Clovelly Road they turned into the side gate of a very ordinary brick semi-detached house.
The female Melvilles had long since eaten, but as Ron and Tim let themselves in the back door Esme Melville came out of the living room and met them in the kitc
hen.
"Your dinner's ruined," she said, without much indignation.
"Go on, Es, you always say that," Ron grinned, sitting down at the kitchen table, where his place and Tim's still lay undisturbed. "What's to eat?"
"As if you care when you're full of beer," Esme retorted. "It's Friday, mug! What do youse always eat on Friday, eh? I got fish and chips from the Dago's as usual."
"Oh, goody! Fish and chips!" Tim exclaimed, beaming. "Gee, Mum, I love fish and chips!"
His mother looked at him tenderly, ruffling his thick hair in the only kind of caress she ever gave him. "It wouldn't matter what I gave you, love, you'd still think it was your favorite. Here youse are."
She slapped heaped plates of greasy, batter-coated fish and soft, very un-crisp French fries in front of her men and went back to the living room, where the television set was in the middle of the umpteenth re-run of Coronation Street. That glimpse of English working-class life was fascinating, and she loved it; she would sit there thinking of her nice big house and garden and the fine weather and the tennis and the beach, pitying the inhabitants of Coronation Street from the bottom of her heart. If you had to be working-class, Aussie working-class was the only one to be.
Tim didn't tell his mother and father about eating the turd sandwich, because he had forgotten all about it; when he finished his fish and chips he and his father left their empty plates on the table and entered the living room.
"Come on, Es, it's time for the cricket summary," Ron said, switching channels.
His wife sighed. "I wish you'd stay out a bit longer, then I might get to see a Joan Crawford picture or something instead of sport, sport, sport!"
"Well, if Tim gets a bit more part-time work, love, I'll buy youse your own TV set," Ron rejoined, kicking his shoes off and stretching himself out full-length on the sofa. "Where's Dawnie?"
"Out with some fella, I suppose."
"What one this time?"
"How the hell do I know, love? I never worry about her, she's too smart to get into trouble."
Ron looked at his son. "Ain't it the dizzy limit, Es, the way life turns out? We got the best looking boy in Sydney and he's about fourpence in the quid, then we go and get Dawnie. There's him, can only sign his name and count to ten, and Dawnie so clever she can win university gold medals without even studying."
Esme picked up her knitting, looking at Ron sadly. He felt it, poor old Ron, but in his own way he'd been real good to Tim, watched out for him without treading on him or treating him like a baby. Didn't he let the boy drink with him, hadn't he insisted Tim should earn his own bread like any normal boy? It was just as well, because they weren't as young as they used to be. Ron was almost seventy and she was only six months behind him. That was why Tim had been born simple, the doctors told her. He was twenty-five now, and he was the first-born. Well over forty, she and Ron were when he was born; the doctors said it was something to do with her ovaries being tired and out of practice. Then a year later Dawnie was born, perfectly normal, which was how it went, the doctors said. The first one was usually the hardest hit when a woman began having children at over forty years of age.
She let her eyes dwell on Tim as he sat in his own special chair by the far wall, closer to the TV than any of the other chairs: like a small child, he liked to be in the middle of the picture. There he sat, the loveliest, sweetest boy, eyes shining as he applauded a cricketing run; she sighed, wondering for the millionth time what would become of him after she and Ron were dead. Dawnie would have to see to him, of course. She was devotedly fond of her brother, but in the normal way of things she would get tired of studying one day and decide to marry instead, and then would her husband want someone like Tim around? Esme doubted it very much. Who wanted a grown-up five-year-old kid if he wasn't their own flesh and blood?
Six
Saturday was just as fine and hot as Friday had been, so Tim set off for Artarmon at six in the morning wearing a short-sleeved sports shirt and tailored shorts with knee socks. His mother always looked out what clothes he was to wear, cooked his breakfast and packed his daytime food, made sure his bag contained a clean pair of work shorts and that he had enough money to see him through any possible difficulty.
When Tim knocked on Mary Horton's door it was just seven, and she was sound asleep. She stumbled, barefooted, through the house, wrapping a dark gray robe around her sensible white cotton pajamas, pushing the few stray wisps of hair away from her face impatiently.
"My goodness, do you always arrive at seven in the morning?" she muttered, blinking the sleep out of her eyes.
"That's when I'm supposed to start work," he replied, smiling.
"Well, since you're here I'd better show you what to do," Mary decided, leading him down the patio steps and across the lawn to a little fern-house.
The ferns disguised the fact that it was actually a repository for gardening equipment, tools, and fertilizers. A small, urban-looking tractor was parked neatly inside the door, covered with a waterproof cloth in case the roof leaked, which of course it didn't since it belonged to Mary Horton.
"Here's the tractor, and it's got the mower already attached. Can you operate it?"
Tim took the cover off and stroked the tractor's shiny surface lovingly. "Oh, it's a beaut!"
Mary suppressed her impatience. "Beaut or not, can you work it, Mr. Melville?"
The blue eyes regarded her with puzzled wonder. "Why do you keep calling me Mr. Melville?" he asked. "Mr. Melville is my father! I'm just Tim."
"Heavens!" she thought, "he's a child!," but she said, "Well, I'll leave you to it. If you need anything, just knock on the back door."
"Righto, Missus!" he said cheerfully, smiling.
"I'm not a Missus!" she snapped. "My name is Horton, Miss Horton!"
"Righto, Miss Horton," he amended happily, not at all disconcerted.
By the time she returned inside she was wide awake, and had abandoned any thought of snatching two or three more hours in bed. In a moment • he would start the tractor, and that would be the end of it. The house was centrally air conditioned, so was cool and dry no matter what the humidity and temperature outside were, but as she got herself some toast and tea Mary decided that it would be very pleasant to eat on the terrace, where she could keep an eye on her new gardener.
When she carried her little tray out she was fully dressed in her weekend at-home uniform of a plain dark gray cotton dress, as creaseless and perfect as everything about her always was. Her hair, which she wore in a long braid for sleeping, was dragged into its daytime bun. Mary never wore slippers or sandals, even when she was at her beach cottage near Gosford; the moment she got out of bed she dressed, which meant support stockings and stout black shoes.
The mower had been purring smoothly from the backyard for twenty minutes when she sat down at a white-painted wrought-iron table by the balustrade and poured herself a cup of tea. Tim was working down at the far end where the yard tipped over into the brick pit, and he was going about it as slowly and methodically as he had seemed to work for Harry Markham, getting down from the tractor as he completed a strip to make sure the next one would overlap it. She sat munching toast and sipping tea, her eyes never leaving his distant figure. Since she was not given to self-analysis or even to mild introspection, it did not occur to her to wonder why she watched him so fixedly; it was enough to realize that he fascinated her. Not for one moment did she think of her fascination as attraction.
"G'day there, Miss Horton!" came the raucous voice of Mrs. Parker, and the next moment the Old Girl flopped her violently colored body into the spare chair.
"Good morning, Mrs. Parker. Would you care for a cup of tea?" Mary said, rather coldly.
"Ta, love, that sounds real nice. No, don't get up, I can find another cup meself."
"No, please don't. I have to freshen up the tea anyway."
When she returned to the patio with a new pot of tea and some more toast Mrs. Parker was sitting with her chin in her hand, watchi
ng Tim.
"That was a good idea, getting Tim to mow yer lawn. I noticed yer usual bloke hasn't been for a while. That's where I'm lucky. One of me sons always comes over to mow me lawn, but you've got no one, eh?"
"Well, I did as you asked yesterday and checked to see that everything was all right regarding the builders and their mess. That was when I met Tim, who seemed to have been left to clean up on his own. He was quite grateful for the offer of a little extra money, I think."
Mrs. Parker disregarded the last part of Mary's statement. "If that ain't typical of them rotten buggers!" she snarled. "Not content to make the poor little blighter's life a misery during the day, but scooted off to the pub and left him to do their dirty work! They had the hide to tell me they was all coming back to clean up! I've a good mind to knock a couple of hundred quid off Mr. Harry Markham's bill!"
Mary put down her teacup and stared at Mrs. Parker, puzzled. "What makes you so indignant, Mrs. Parker?"
The yellow and purple pansies swathing Mrs. Parker's ample bosom heaved. "Well, wouldn't you be? Oh, I forgot, I didn't see youse last night to tell youse what those miserable bastards did to the poor little bloke, did I? Sometimes I swear I could kill every man that was ever born! They don't seem to have a skerick of sympathy or understanding for the underdog, unless of course he's a drunk or a no-hoper like themselves. But someone like Tim, what does a decent day's work and keeps his end up, they don't feel any pity for him at all. He's their butt, their whipping boy, and the poor little coot's too dill-brained to realize it! He can't help it if he was born simple, now can he? A terrible shame, though, ain't it? Fancy a boy what looks like him not being the full quid! I could cry! Well, anyway, wait until I tell you what they did to him yestiddy morning at smoke-oh ..."
Mrs. Parker's nasal, common voice whined on as she told Mary her horrible little story, but Mary only half-listened, her eyes riveted on the bent golden head at the bottom of the yard.
Last night before she had gone to bed she had culled the shelves of her library, searching for a face that looked like his. Botticelli? she wondered, and finding some of his reproductions in a book she dismissed the artist contemptuously. Those faces were too soft, too feminine, too subtly cunning and feline. In the end she had given up the search, quite unsatisfied. Only in the ancient Greek and Roman statues had she found some hint of Tim, perhaps because his kind of beauty was better illustrated in stone than on canvas. He was a three-dimensional creature. And she had wished bitterly that in her ungifted hands there had resided the skill to immortalize him.