One Sunday (14 page)

Not Christian. He'd been sitting with a group in the dirt, mocking Kurt and the handbag he carried. So Kurt said it, and said it loud: ‘
Mein Bruder, der Betrunken
,' choosing to wound his brother, if not by calling him a drunkard, then with the language, needing to abuse him in front of his smirking, so-called friends. Christian stumbled to his feet, throwing his grog first and following it with a drunkard's punch. Someone yelled, ‘Fight! Fight!'

Kurt looked at the constable and shook his head. How could he say anything of last night? How could he say that the last time he had seen Rachael alive, she'd been grasping Christian's arm, and his bastard of a brother had said to her, ‘Go home and cry on Gimpy's shoulder. It's too late to cry on mine.'

Kurt glanced at Tom, wondering how much he knew; he'd already spoken to Mrs Dolan. Was he waiting to catch Kurt in a lie? Those round brown eyes were watching him closely, sympathetic eyes, but Kurt couldn't hold them. He looked down at the desk where he saw the pattern his hand had made in the dust. He wiped it, placed his hands on his knees.

‘So you pretty much left her as you found her, Kurt.'

‘She was . . . as you saw her. Yes.'

‘Her clothes hadn't been disturbed?'

‘No. She appeared to be lying on her back, sleeping. I thought someone from the hotel must have given her drink. I thought she would be embarrassed to be woken.' He rubbed at his brow, striving to remove the image of the mulberry lips and the silver hair, purple striped by mulberry juice. He looked at the floor, saw the shards of glass there.

The constable had seen that glass but chose to pretend it was not there. This is what people did when they couldn't face what was real – they chose not to see, chose not to feel. Was this how he could live with his crazy woman? He sits there making his notes with a worn-out pen, ignoring the world he inhabits only a door away, Kurt thought. I sit here, broken glass at my feet, like him, pretending it is not there, pretending I did not see his crazy woman throw it. We all create cushions of pretence to shield the mind. God grant me such a cushion now.

He had to tell what he knew, but where to begin? How did you tell in few enough words for that old pen to record? The constable was writing his notes for city policemen and many more would be written today. Rachael's father was rich. Dave Kennedy was a war hero. Perhaps the Melbourne police were also war heroes. They would remove Kurt's shirt from that bag, see the blood, smell his sweat on it, and recognise the stink of a German. Blame would be placed fast. He had to give the constable all of the details now. One thing could not be written on this paper and another written later. Better. Safer. And if in remaining safe he put Christian in danger? Then that drunken bastard deserved it.

But he hadn't harmed Rachael. He had been angry last night, but even in anger, he wouldn't hurt her. And if he had accidentally hurt her, drunk or not, he wouldn't have left her where she'd fallen, walked away from her.

The question had been answered without being asked. He knew his brother had not harmed Rachael, and for an instant he felt he'd vomit with relief. He stood, sucked in a deep breath, glanced at the constable, who was watching his every move, so he sat again, looked at his boots.

When I ride away from here, he thought, I'll have to tell them at home that she's dead. Mutti will weep for her. Papa's face will harden and he'll turn his eyes away. Christian will stare at me while his face grows pale and his eyes grow hot enough to burn me, then he'll kick the horse or the barn, punch a wall until his fists bleed, but he won't cry for her. It had taken Christian a long time to learn that tears were for girls. He'd learned it, though, learned that lesson better than Kurt.

Only a year ago there had been such lightness, such happiness at home – because of Rachael. She'd come often on Sunday afternoons. She'd loved Elsa's flaky pastry and had tried to make it – and made very bad pastry. So much laughter in that kitchen when they'd eaten it, Joseph even making a joke: ‘Go fetch my chisel and the small hammer,' he'd said. Kurt translated those words for Rachael, she laughed, and everyone laughed. ‘This one brings back the light,' Joseph said, then lifted a hand, not wishing those words translated. ‘This little Silver brings light again into my house.'

Old men become fools. Joseph saw who he wanted to see in Rachael, believed that because he wanted her light and laughter to fill those rooms, he would have it. Young men are greater fools. Christian thought to take what he wanted and make it his own. Kurt had known better. Always, from childhood, he'd known instinctively she was of a different world. That first day at the river, he'd seen her as a magical being; and the day in the mulberry tree, she'd been real enough, but he'd known she was not for the likes of him. How many times had he warned Christian: ‘She's a Catholic,' he'd said. ‘She's rich. She's a Squire.'

‘Shit,' he breathed. ‘Shit.' Then he lifted his chin, looked the constable in the eye and didn't look away. ‘Rachael came to our house last night and I took her to Mrs Dolan's party.'

‘What?'

Kurt repeated his words.

‘You're telling me that you took Dave Kennedy's wife to that pub?' A nod the only reply. ‘What the hell were you thinking of? What the hell was she thinking of, going there with you? What the hell was going on with you two?'

‘For years she has been our friend, and these last years, more than a friend to my brother.' He shrugged, allowed his eyes to wander. ‘She used to swim across the river and cut through Kennedy's property to our place – from when she was thirteen. Long before she was Kennedy's wife, she and Christian hoped to marry. For a time, after church on Sundays, she'd tell her parents she was going to a friend's house and she'd spend the day with us. People would do anything for her, just to have her for their friend. She was a bright star in this town, Mr Thompson. If you were within her circle, then all around you there was . . . brightness.' He closed his eyes, sucked air between clenched teeth. Twice he tried to speak before the words came. ‘She didn't want that marriage to Kennedy. Her father forced her to marry him.'

‘How do you know this?'

‘My mother knows.' Again Kurt shrugged. ‘Two weeks ago Rachael came to us – to my mother. She was weeping. She told my mother everything.'

‘So she continued seeing your brother – even after she'd married Kennedy?'

‘No. Her father and Kennedy kept an invisible chain around her neck and they tugged hard on it if I, or my brother, was around. We had no chance to speak to her, until two weeks ago when she came to us in the night.' He shook his head, wanting to wash the image away. Couldn't make it go away. ‘She was broken, Mr Thompson, like one of those fragile silver moths that come in from the dark, their wings bruised, their glow all gone. She was crying so hard, heartbroken crying, and she couldn't stop. My mother held her for an hour, rocking her as if she were a baby.'

‘Had Kennedy been abusing her?'

Kurt shook his head, shrugged. ‘Perhaps. She spoke to Mutti – to my mother.' He looked at Tom, again shook his head. ‘My father was in bed, Christian left the house when she came. This crushed Rachael more. “Tell him it's not my fault, Mutti. Tell him I love only him, Mutti.” This is what she called our mother.'

Silence then. Silence for a long time, only the rhythmic whisper of Kurt's palms rubbing backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards on his trousers, from knee to thigh.

‘So, when are we talking about here, lad?'

Kurt drew a breath, releasing it slowly towards the ceiling. Drew another. ‘On the evening of the New Year.'

‘Your brother didn't come back and speak to her?'

‘No. He was hurt badly by that marriage. He…' Again he shrugged. ‘Rachael came again on the Friday night, again in tears. That night she pleaded with Christian until again he became angry and walked away. Then, last night, she came and I was in bed. My parents were in bed. I told her I would get my mother. She was not crying last night. She didn't want me to wake Mutti. She said she had to speak to Christian, that she was leaving Kennedy. She was stronger last night. She said that no woman could be forced to live with a man she loathed. These were her words, Mr Thompson, her words to me last night.'

He looked at Tom, then away to the batch of dog-eared papers on the desk, at the gap between ceiling and wall, at the water jug. His mouth was too dry; even his tongue, sent out to moisten his lips, felt dry.

‘I found my brother at Dolan's. He was with a group. We argued, so I left, and I left Rachael with him. I did the wrong thing.'

The pen wasn't writing. ‘So why didn't you say all this to me this morning?'

‘You didn't ask me – as I didn't ask you if she was dead.'

‘I asked you where your brother was.'

‘He was asleep. I said he was sleeping.'

‘Maybe the question I should have asked is how long had he been sleeping? I'm asking it now, lad.'

Kurt shook his head. ‘Kennedy and Nicholas Squire will say my brother is the guilty one. You know their attitude to us,' he said, his eyes meeting Tom's now, and holding them. ‘Christian would not leave her bleeding beside the road. He was sick with love of her.'

‘He didn't love her enough to talk to her when she came running to him for help. He didn't love her enough to get her away safe from that pub last night either. That's what you said to me a minute ago.'

‘He was drunk.' Kurt stood, stepped on glass, heard the crunch of it loud beneath his heel.

‘That's no defence, lad. Never was, nor ever will be.'

‘My brother did not harm her. In here, I know this.' His index finger prodded his chest. ‘He would never raise his hand against a woman. My brother would cut off his own nose to spite his face, he would harm himself in anger, he would fight me, our father, or any man alive, but he would not raise his hand against a woman – and he would kill any man who did. In here, I know this.'

‘She wasn't just any woman to him, lad. She was his woman and she'd been with another man. A lot of violence can be done in such situations; it's inclined to alter a man's perception of right and wrong when that sort of thing happens to him,' Tom said.

Kurt pointed that same index finger at the paper. ‘Please write this for your city men to read, Mr Thompson. My brother, drunk or not, did not leave Rachael bleeding on that road. I know my brother's failings too well, and I also know his strengths.' He turned, walked to the end of the counter, lifting the section that locked him in, knowing now he should have kept his mouth shut.

‘Come back and sit down, lad. We're not done yet. And I'm not saying that your brother is the guilty party either – and I know that what you're saying about Squire and Kennedy is dead right. Dead right. If they've got reason to believe she's been on with Chris, then they'll go after him with all they've got, you can bet your back teeth on that. I'll tell you something else while I'm about it. Squire has already been onto his city friends, who have got direct contacts at Russell Street. And those city chaps are coming up here today. And too right, they'll listen to Squire and Kennedy, but those Russell Street chaps are good at their jobs, and damn good at sniffing out the facts, and they're not in the business of hanging innocent men. All I'm writing down here are facts. So sit down and calm down, and let's go back to where you thought she was someone sleeping it off beside the road.'

The story was repeated while Tom's pen scratched. A strange sound, like mice in the barn.

‘So you last saw Rachael at Dolan's pub. At what time?'

‘I don't know. I'd been asleep. It . . . it felt late.'

‘What time did you go to bed?'

‘We had worked all day on the dam. I was in bed by eight-thirty.'

‘And you said you saw her often at your place, prior to last night.'

‘Before her marriage, we saw her often. Since her marriage, she has been to our house three times, the Tuesday, the Friday, and last night. On the Friday night, my mother walked her home, and was cursed by Kennedy for her caring.'

‘Did Nicholas Squire know your brother was reckoning on marrying the girl?'

‘He knew they were close. He came to our house, a year ago – maybe a little more than a year ago – and he made it very clear that Christian was not acceptable. He told my mother to keep her German scum away from his daughter.

‘My brother and I are second generation Australians, on our mother's side; she was born on the Merton gold fields.' Anger had crept into his voice as the words came uncensored from his heart. ‘My father left German soil in 1874. His first wife, and his Australian-born son and two daughters, are buried here, in this town. He has given sweat and blood enough to this country to be treated with respect. If there is “scum” in this town, it is as the fat in the saucepan when my mother boils it up for purification. The scum rises to the top, Mr Thompson.'

‘A lot of folk lost sons in that war, and Squire one of them. Name-calling is the only weapon some folk have, lad.'

‘We have had the name-calling for a long time, and the bricks through our windows too, and the wire-cutters at our fences –' Kurt closed his mouth, clamped his jaw. He had said too much. He concentrated on the photograph of King George, not pleased by his outburst. He drew a deeper breath then spoke on to the enlarged postage stamp.

‘After Squire came to our home, my mother spoke to Rachael and Christian. She told them they must separate. It did no good. They were sixteen, laughing children, playing children's games, and involving us in their games.

‘They wrote notes, posted them in that hollow tree near the bridge. They met at night at the river, until her parents found out and began locking Rachael in her room each night. Even that didn't stop them; it became a part of their game. Christian would go to Squire's house and help her up and down from her window, until Johnson's dogs chased him to the river one night. After that, he made Rachael a rope ladder she could loop around the leg of her bed – so she could climb in and out unassisted.