While I waited, I folded Bridie’s banner and slipped it into my backpack, next to the letter that I’d stolen from the memory box; the one in which the Reverend questioned Johnathon Cranna’s values, even while accepting his advice. When the time was right, when his head was clear, I’d show Johnathon that letter. In the meantime, my mind began to drift to Asael and the fine, fawning time he’d be having with Dana. And to Bridie, who’d spent the afternoon in this room and left her banner behind.
* * *
“Pay attention!” Johnathon suddenly barked; as though he’d grown impatient, waiting for me to focus. Then he wagged a slow, admonishing finger at the ceiling. “Always keep running! Never stop! Never look back! Might be the Devil behind you! Right?”
Great, I thought! Another hallucinator! If only Asael was here, I could show him how helpless it feels to be on the outside of other people’s delusions. Johnathon lapsed into stillness before suddenly demanding, “Where’s the Reverend?” He was so loud that I bounced in my seat, but his eyes remained fixed somewhere miles beyond the stippled ceiling. “Back in his church, that’s where! Got his nose in his books, Princess! Eyes in his books! That’s all he cares about.”
“New Guinea,” I said softly, wondering if it was possible to correct a dreamer. “The Reverend’s in New Guinea.”
“What? No way! Zat right? Not in the church then, the ol’ God-botherer?”
He was sweating and kicking feebly; hearing me, I thought, but imagining me part of his dream. I got up to wipe his face with a corner of the sheet and I shook him a little, wanting to free him of whatever was holding him.
“You smashed The Grand Gourd to smithereens, you know!” I said loudly.
It must have worked because he blinked several times, searching for my face, searching for the memory. “The vegetable is dead?”
“Yes. You killed it – splattered it half across the parking lot!”
“Whoah! Get me some seeds from that sucker! Do a run in the Moth, you ‘n’ me, eh?” So he was conscious enough to know that I – or at least someone – was there with him! “Next year . . . pumpkins big as houses, all over the country! You come with me?”
“Sure! Great! You’ll need a new plane, though. The Moth’s gone!”
His eyes juddered into near focus.
“It got burned,” I said.
“Burned? No way!”
“Yes, ‘fraid so! I saw it go up!”
“No-o-o! Not burned?”
“Yeah . . . the boys. You know. Too much drink and excitement.”
He closed his eyes and rolled his face to the wall. “Ahrrrr!”
I straightened the sheet over him and he didn’t move.
“It might have been an accident!” I whispered, but he didn’t answer.
Out in the hall, I could hear the nattering approach of Asael, telling Dana about The Thing that we’d left in the paddock.
“How wouldja know?” he was asking. “How wouldja know if it was real?”
Before they arrived, I spied a Mintie, still in its wrapper, lying on the floor beside Johnathon’s bed. Knowing Bridie, I thought it well might be the very one that had fluttered into her hands at the end of the lolly drop. I could see her leaving it for him – as a sign of his ‘miracle’. I remembered Rosemary, plucking lollies from the clump that had killed Garlic and I quickly unwrapped the Mintie.
“You suck it and see, little brother,” I whispered to the air. “That’s how you tell if it’s real.” I gingerly tucked the paper under Johnathon’s pillow and popped the lolly into my mouth.
Chapter 6– A Baker’s Perspective (Saturday)
How should a baker not be a philosopher? How should the yeasting of breads not spill over into the yeasting of minds? That’s how people explain Kevin. And that’s why people continually seek him out; to ask their most perplexing questions and to savour the inventiveness of his answers.
“Hello, Morning!”
It was a ritual with him, formally greeting the day. Even though, at six A.M., he’d already been up and working for two hours. It was really the return of the sun that he welcomed.
“Hello yourself!” I said trudging out of the driveway and up to the back door of the bakery.
“And hello Ruthie Mc Ef! What’s up? You wet the bed or something?”
He was forever telling me that people who got up at eight had already missed the best part of the day.
“Not even a little bit. But I might as well’ve, for all the sleep I got. Can I come in?”
“No! I finally got young Hoggs motivated to work and I don’t want you distracting him. But for the sister of the reigning Harvest Festival Queen, I can pull up a clean crate out here. And I can offer you coffee and hot scones. And I’ve got a sunrise ordered that would’ve knocked your socks off if you’d thought to put any on!”
* * *
I sat and he fetched. I heard him pass a few words with Hoggs, inside, and then he was back, settling onto the seat beside me.
“So?” he said, happy to indulge my mood. “Tell me!”
I shook my head as though I wasn’t going to, but we both knew that was what I was there for. I just needed some coaxing. A place to begin.
“Conscience get to you?”
“What – about stealing the Reverend’s letters?”
He waggled his eyebrows at me as if to say, what else.
“A bit maybe. Not so much. Not enough to give them back, at any rate. Anyhow, they must be mine as much as anyone’s, wouldn’t you think?”
This time, one eyebrow went up and the other curled down – a sure sign that he was making an assessment.
“And Amalthea’s goat ate one of them. So even if I wanted to give ‘em back, that one’s gone.”
His lips clenched in a ‘that’s that, then’ expression and he nodded.
“I’ll tell you what though, I wouldn’t be sorry if I’d never seen them!”
“Mmm, well. One thing about the past – it’s always there, just behind you. Hard to ignore.”
“Yeah, well not mine! Or my family’s! It all seems to have looped around in front of me these days!” And, though I’d told him part of it the day before, I launched into the rest of the merry-go-round that had been spinning in my head all night.
From the mysterious ‘Thing’ that we’d found in Alf’s cane paddock, to Isak Nucifora’s catatonic ride in Amalthea’s barrow. From Asael’s vision of Rita, to Amalthea’s conviction that my family’s ghosts were stalking about, unable to rest. From being embarrassingly childish and useless in front of Bessie Crampton (instead of simply demanding the return of whatever it was she ‘took’) to stupidly breaking the news to Johnathon that the Moth was history. From humiliating Asa’ for being so slobbery weak, to fighting with Bridie for . . . for being Bridie. Round and round and round.
I was certain, in fact, that I hadn’t slept at all until I actually woke, feeling cramped and cornered, and discovered that Asael had crept in with me sometime in the night, balling up like an echidna against my back. He always was a forgiver. Which must be helpful when your sister’s a cow!
Anyhow, not wanting to face either him or Bridie, I’d slid out of bed and out of the house, and headed for the Harmony Bakery. Unhappily, the person I’d least wanted to face – myself – had come right along with me. So here I was, inflicting that person on Kevin.
“You can’t let it go?”
I shook my head. “I’d like to! But I don’t seem to be in charge.”
We sat silently there for a while, under the morning stars, soaking up the smell of baking. Grand Gourd Scones. For the moment, I didn’t need any more than that smell and the comfort of Kevin’s company.
After a bit, he drew a long, slow breath and raised his arms toward the sky. “Of all the hours on the clock,” he said, “these are the ones to treasure, Ru’. The readiness – the sweetness of the air! A new chance at joy. You, my friend, have got to avail yourself of it. There are steps to be taken!”
r /> A voice came, slow and deep, from the depths of the work room behind us. “Careful ye don’t fly away there, Chief!”
Kevin rose immediately and dramatically, all the way onto his toes where he wobbled precariously, waggling his fingers and spreading his hands as though the sun might, at any moment, come bouncing over the horizon like a ball for him to catch.
“Now wouldn’t that be a treat, eh? Fly up, just high enough to look back – see what kind of expression the old world has on its face this fine morning.”
He fell back onto his heels. “A funny old expression, I’d expect. A funny old look for a funny old world, eh Ru’?”
I smiled but the voice within answered. “So says the funny ol’ man, eh?”
“Respect for your elders, young man, is one of the corner stones of civilisation! As is coffee! Have you put it on like your employer instructed? Or are we destined to suffer desiccation out here?” He smiled at me and raised a finger to his lips.
The owner of the second voice was Franz Hoggitt, son of Mayor Lyle and Mayoress Frieda. At least according to his age – seventeen or eighteen – Hoggs was on the cusp of being a man. In every other respect, however, he was just a large boy with scarcely an interest in anything – certainly not in making coffee or baking. The one certainty about him, in fact, was his interest in grog; which accounted for his showing up at the Harmony Bakery, relatively reliably, at four o’clock every A.M.
He was Kevin’s dog’s body, shifting bags of flour, sweeping, wiping, carrying and sometimes helping behind the counter. Kev’ reckoned it was the perfect job for Hoggs – warm, uncomplicated and with the added benefit of free baked goods. Hoggs reckoned that the work and the hours were tolerable, but having to put up with Kev’s relentless persecution of ideas was close to being too much.
“Desiccation, for Chris’ sake!” we heard him grumble. “Get to your age an’ can’t speak fuckin’ English yet! How’s it happen?”
He rattled a spoon in a cup and Kevin, content, launched himself on one of trademark circularities.
“Astounding, isn’t it, Ru’? How one day you’re this and the next day you’re that? One day, you feel like someone who fits. Like you’re comfortable with yourself and other folks are comfortable with you – your size and shape and colour and sound. ‘Cause you’re part of all that they are. And only a day later, it can seem like you’ve grown a jaggedy edge and folks have shifted away from you. What does that tell you, Ru’?”
“Know what it tells me?” Hoggs appeared in the doorway with a plate of steaming scones. “Tells me ye’d be a nong to worry ‘bout it. Stuff what other people think, that’s what I say! They don’t like ye the way ye are, that’s their tough tittie. Who’s gonna taste-test these buggers?”
“Ah!” Kevin nodded, accepting the plate. “Now what about that, Ru? Stuffing what other people think! Would that work for you?”
I knew that any answer Hoggs came up with had to be suspect in some way, even though it sounded exactly like the approach I’d been taking.
“If you’re asking has it worked for me, the answer is . . . apparently not! Maybe my skin’s not thick enough. Either that or the people I have to ignore are just too chronically talented at being irritating!”
“Well,” said Kev’, with no small degree of irony, I thought, “You’re renowned for your sensitivity, mate. So it’s probably that.”
The three of us fell into a thoughtful silence, looking out into a sky that was taking on an oily sheen. Yesterday morning, only a couple of hours earlier than this, the Space Thing had streaked across that very portion of sky, headed for Alf Caletti’s cane paddock and a meeting with Isak Nucifora. I looked at Kevin.
“So what else have you got for me, Kev? ‘Cause that didn’t help much.”
He folded his hands behind his head.
“Well, I was just thinking about a village I once heard of, way off over in New Zealand. The queen’s man came to it one day and told everyone the queen had decided to reward all the best people in the town – the ones who’d been truthful and good and tried to do right all their lives. The townsfolk figured, ‘What the hell? That’s all of us, isn’t it?’ So they all got in the line to go with the queen’s man, to collect their reward. But just before they left, the man said he’d made a mistake! So sorry! Actually it wasn’t the good people the queen wanted. It was the bad people! The liars and cheats and thieves and muggers and hypocrites! The queen, he said, was going to give those people bags of money – not as a reward, but as a bribe – in hopes that it’d get them to stop their evil ways. Everybody fell out of line, of course, because they knew they were the good people! They milled around for a bit. Then they all got straight back into the line.”
Again, silence. The sky was beginning to wave streamers of light, as though cheering the sun in its climb toward the horizon. The air was heady with the smell of new scones and now, coffee as well. Nearby a kookaburra cleared its throat, giving fair warning to all food species.
“Mate,” said Hoggs, “It might be that you sometimes know what you’re talkin’ about. But most o’ the time, no other bugger has the least clue!”
Kevin laughed. “No? Well I guess that’s the curse of being a funny old man, Hoggs.” I could feel him looking at me, like he was expecting a light to come on over my head. I waited. No light. He kept watching me.
“I’m thinking,” I said.
“Good!” He tapped my knee. “Coffee for three, coming up!” And he bustled past Hoggs, into the workroom. Hoggs took Kevin’s place beside me on the crate and did his best to take Kev’s place in the conversation.
“He’s a looney ol’ bird, isn’ee? But sometimes there’s just that little parcel o’ sense hidden away. Like a lost raisin, ye know what I mean? Hey! Heard you were the one pulled Cranna outta the Moth yestidy! Bloody good on ye, mate! Me, I was out on the paddock waitin’ for lollies. Got heaps of ‘em! Got hammered to buggery too! Look!”
He held out his arms to show red welts.
“Got on the piss with me mates afterwards! Bloody wasted, we were! Hey! Heard what you was sayin’ to Kev’, ‘bout the meteor thing ‘n’ all. You really see somethin’ out the back paddocks there? I mean like a space junk thing? An’ ghosts or whatever? Man! What kinda stuff you musta bin smokin’! No wonder yer up at the crack o’ freakin’ dawn!”
My head went on automatic nod, so I could keep mulling over Kevin’s village story. Like Hoggs said, there’s always a meaning; a raisin of truth hidden in the dough.
“How old are you, Hoggs?”
“Me? Eighteen. Near enough. Why? How old are you?”
“An’ you’ve lived in Sugar Town all your life?”
“Yeah. Pretty much! Why?”
“Can you remember my father? The Reverend?”
“Yeah yeah! Course! Well, sorta. Mum useta make me go listen to him preach. She reckoned he was good for the soul but I gotta tell ye – he scared the crap outta me! Always mad, he was! Every one of us on the fast road to hell, the way he told it! Funny innit, how we never really got no one to replace him? My ol’ man says the Reverend whipped us into good enough shape to last three generations. Ha! That’s somethin’, comin’ from the mayor!”
“Why? Whatcha mean?”
“Ah! Just his stories! To hear him tell it, he done some pretty rude things in his life. One o’ the wild boys! Before he got the political bug. That’s his story anyways!”
“Tell me, Hoggs, you ever hear of anything really bad happening in Sugar Town? I mean like maybe even years ago?”
“Oh shit yeah! I mean, that ol’ lady – your grandma – she got topped didn’ she? Years ago. She lived in that house o’ Alf Caletti’s, where the goat-lady is! What? Ye didn’ know she lived there? Yeah! An’ some drifter done ‘er in, right there in that house! The oldies still talk about that one! An’ then there was your ma, like. Done herself in, they say. I kinda remember that! But that wunt talked about so much. Kinda hush-hush around us kids.”
&nb
sp; “Yeah. I’m finding Sugar Town’s real good at hush-hush. What about anything else, though? Before that time? Around that time? It’s just that I . . . well I found this old letter, see? From when the Reverend was still here. And it’s got this thing about a ‘terrible deed’ in it. When my ma and grandma were both still alive. It had something to do with my family and kind of the whole rest of Sugar Town!”
“Mate, you asked the ol’ man about this at the festival, didn’ ya? He was up prowlin, the house when I come in this mornin’, goin’ off about you. Still pissed as a newt, he was, an’ I wunt much better meself, so I didn’t make much sense of ‘im. But listen. The way I see it, your family’s had more’n its share o’ bad luck in the past. If there’s sump’m more, sump’m you haven’t heard about yet, my advice to you is, stay the fuck away from it, girl! You know what they say about pokin’ them sleepin’ dogs!”
“Yep! Yep I do! So the mayor was upset?”
“He wunt upset, Ruthie. He was majorly shat off! Ready to tear the legs off the table, he was that pissed! Whatever you said to him musta percolated all arvy!”
Kevin appeared with the coffee and we busied ourselves with that. In the next yard, the Uniting Church’s yard, from a high branch of the Poinciana tree, came the drawn out graaaak of a tree frog. Against a pale, new light in the sky I could pick out the kookaburra, slamming it against the wood. I took a bite of my Grand Gourd scone and the bird tilted its head back, swallowing its stunned breakfast whole.
I’d known the mayor was annoyed at being ambushed, but I was surprised it would still be working on him hours later. I mean, realistically, I was just a kid, and he was the mayor! Unless the Terrible Deed really did mean something to him! Something he remembered from his ‘wild days’ perhaps!
After a bit, Hoggs said slyly, “Saw you with that ol’ sheila yestidy, Kev’! At the festival. Someone said she’s a fortune teller wi’ them Showies. She give ye a bit of a forecast, did she?” He nudged me and winked a ‘watch this’ kind of wink.