The Promise Seed Read online

  Sometimes I’d look at Bump – watch her catching bugs or playing the fool – and think about how my sister Emily would have been just about her age.

  Once I caught Tom watching me watching Bump. I was careful after that.

  Tom’s mum could cook up a storm. I must have put on five pounds. We were allowed as much fruit as we could eat; Tom and I had seconds at every meal, and dessert after dinner every night.

  We went for long rambling walks through the countryside, exploring and finding all sorts of stuff. One day we found a fox skull and Tom let me keep it to take back to school. I even got to ride a horse. I watched the shearers at work. I saw Tom’s dad get up each day and head off to a different corner of his land to do all kinds of strange and wonderful things – mend fences, tend to sick animals, discourage foxes, and cope with the problems of whitefly and weevils, of canker and leaf rust.

  But the week had to come to an end. Tom’s mum was good to me when we left to board the bus and the train; she gave me a huge slab of orange cake in a tin and told me I was welcome to come back anytime. Bump gave me a necklace she’d made herself out of cow’s teeth. I don’t mind admitting I felt the sting of tears that day, saying goodbye to them all.

  After we got back to school, Tom and I stayed close for a time, and I was finally starting to think that maybe he was a friend, a true grown-up friend, not like the little kids I’d known in the Home. Unfortunately, fate intervened in the form of a dysentery outbreak at the school in early 1954. Dozens of students fell ill and many were transferred to the local hospital. One boy died, an eleven-year-old named Stuart Little; his name had been lost for many years in my subconscious, but a few years ago, when that film came out, the one about the mouse, I remembered that kid, Stuart, and it’s stuck with me ever since. They said his mum went mad with grief – she came to the school one day, shouting and cursing, her husband trying to get her back into their car, and eventually the ambulance came to take her away. After that, the school closed for a few weeks and all the boys were sent home. Not us, of course, the bursary boys, seeing as we had no homes to go to. We were all put into the one dormitory and had to endure endless games of Monopoly in which the supervising teacher, Mr Heslop, played with a competitive streak bordering on viciousness. Apparently he had drawn the short straw among the staff, and resented us for preventing him from being at home.

  In any event, the crisis blew over, the school reopened, and the students drifted back, except for poor little Stuart. And Tom. He sent me a letter saying his dad had decided he needed more help on the property and, as Tom was now sixteen, his family thought it was more important for him to be earning his keep than continuing his education. His letter was full of unspoken disappointment. We corresponded a few times after that, and he even invited me back for another visit, but since he was no longer a student, the school couldn’t see its way clear to paying my way, and I had no money of my own. Eventually we stopped writing altogether. A Christmas card that year was the last I heard from him.

  I was lonely at the school after that. Whenever I got close to someone, something happened to get in the way. I became more and more isolated. At sixteen, I was wondering what to do with my life. When the recruitment people came to the school to consider kids interested in training for an apprenticeship, I put up my hand. I’d had about enough of formal education as I thought could matter, and I was dead keen to learn a trade and make my way in the world. That was the one time in my life I was truly hopeful. I didn’t realise at the time that no matter how big that balloon of optimism, all it takes is one small prick to burst it to nothingness.

  8

  The boy struggled to wake from his nightmare. His eyelids quivered and beads of sweat dotted his forehead. His bedsheets were twisted around his legs. He was in a murky, close space that smelt of earth and wet leaves. He could see twigs and feathers. But it was the sound that disturbed him … the sharp cracking of eggshells, over and over. He focused his eyes into the dark and saw two red pinpoints glaring malevolently back at him, growing rounder and larger as the creature to which they belonged crept closer. He tried to shrink away, but the outline of the creature came slowly into view: a half-formed turkey chick, its feathers slimy, its beak misshapen, its red eyes fixed on his. The boy cried out.

  He raised himself up on one elbow and rubbed the vision from his eyes, blinking into the morning sunlight. He could feel his heart racing. He breathed deeply, waiting for calm to settle. Outside his window, the twittering of squabbling honeyeaters was interrupted by the mournful cry of a bird on the wing. A butcher bird swooped into the bush, and the smaller birds mushroomed upwards in a frightened cloud.

  The boy planted his feet on the floor and applied the smell test to a pair of underpants.

  It was a Monday, which meant his mum would be sleeping off her Sunday hangover. She played the pokies on Sunday afternoons with some girlfriends, but this always led to a counter meal with the girlfriends and some drinks with the girlfriends, which further led to meeting up with some of the girlfriends’ boyfriends, and various other hangers-on, and that led to drinks with the boyfriends, and that led to … well, he didn’t want to think about what that led to, but it usually meant she slept late and soundly on a Monday, and not often alone.

  So it was a surprise when he entered the kitchen to find her sitting at the table, already dressed, nursing a mug of instant coffee and apparently not nursing a hangover. She smiled at him brightly and asked if he had slept well.

  Yeah, he lied, wondering what was going on. His mother continued to gaze at him expectantly. He circled the table and made for the fridge, where he was further surprised to discover a fresh container of milk and a large tub of Greek yoghurt with mango flavouring, his favourite. He brought both to the table. He poured a tall glass of milk, levered the lid off the yoghurt and began spooning it directly into his mouth before whoever had taken his mother and replaced her with this stranger changed their mind and brought her back.

  She was still staring at him, the twitch of a smile playing around her lips. Well?

  Well what? he muttered.

  She suddenly looked crestfallen and he remembered his manners.

  Oh, thanks. Thanks for the yoghurt.

  She sighed and rolled her eyes. No, not that. I can’t believe you’ve forgotten! Today’s your special day! Happy birthday, my little man. Happy birthday.

  As she threw her arms around him, he could smell her first cigarette of the day on her breath.

  He was surprised that he’d forgotten, but he was more astonished that his mum had remembered. Last year she’d been working, although she did take him to Pizza Hut after she’d finished her shift at eight o’clock. He’d been so tired by then that he’d barely summoned the energy to enjoy it. The year before she’d slept until lunchtime. The boy had waited in the house for her to wake up, his stomach a knot of anticipation. When she woke but didn’t mention it, he knew she would say something after her shower. While she smoked a cigarette, he was certain she would produce a present after she’d eaten. By the time she’d dressed and left the house to meet someone, calling out to him that if he wasn’t going to bother going to school, he could at least tidy the house a little – by that time he’d stopped waiting, and the knot in his stomach had dissolved into shame for having expected anything more than what had happened.

  So it was startling to find her awake and sober.

  My little boy, ten years old. Ten! I can’t believe it. It seems like yesterday you were causing me so much pain trying to enter the world and now here you are, all grown up, taking care of your old mother.

  The boy squirmed to escape her clinging, cloying embrace. He returned to the yoghurt. His mother sat down opposite him, staring at him.

  So … he ventured after a while, into the silence. So … you wanna do something today?

  Maybe today would be the day, the moment of his fantasies, when they would spend a happy
day together and he would give her the stolen gold band.

  His mother’s eyes dropped to the table top and she scratched anxiously at a hardened lump of food stuck there.

  Well, no, see, that’s why I wanted to get up early, see, because I wanted to tell you myself that I have to go out today, you know, with Tobias? You know, the guy I’ve been seeing? He’s taking me somewhere special today, had it planned for ages, and I didn’t want to disappoint him, you know, he’s taken the day off specially and everything. So, no, we can’t.

  The boy lowered his spoon.

  Could we … he began evenly, could we … maybe … do something together then? Like, the three of us? Could I maybe come with you?

  His mother laughed, not unkindly. Oh, no, I don’t think so. I don’t think what Tobias has in mind would be very suitable for you. No, that wouldn’t work at all.

  The boy’s grip tightened on his spoon until his knuckles glowed white. He hated himself for allowing his hopes to rise; he hated his mother for pretending. He pushed back his chair and threw his spoon into the sink.

  Well I’m not going to school, if that’s what you think. I don’t care what you say.

  She moved to his side and ruffled his hair, ignoring his outburst. I wouldn’t dream of letting you go to school on such a special day. That’s the other thing I’ve got to tell you! I have a surprise for you! Something special, come and see!

  She grabbed his hand and began pulling him towards the back door. He allowed the bruised bud of excitement in his stomach to unfurl as he hurried behind her. Of course he didn’t hate her. Of course.

  She opened the door with a flourish and practically pushed him through. There on the verandah was a very shiny, very complicated, very expensive-looking bicycle. The paintwork was metallic blue. He counted the gears – twelve. He circled the bike like he would a spooked animal, fearful that it might lurch away into the morning. His mother stood in the doorway, beaming.

  I hope you like the colour. They had red too, but I thought this was more like you. And you can adjust the seat here, see?

  She began touching the bike’s various workings almost in awe.

  And these are the gears, and this is the brake, and it even has a water bottle, see? On its own little attachment here. And listen, here’s the bell.

  The bell tinkled merrily.

  Well? she asked, after he hadn’t spoken for several minutes. Well? Don’t you like it?

  His face changed in an instant from incredulity to adoration. He sprang at her, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face into her blouse.

  I love it! I love it! Thank you so much! It’s the best present ever! This is the best birthday I’ve ever had! You’re the best mother in the world! Thank you, thank you, thank you!

  His mother laughed and tickled him around his ribs. I’m so glad you like it, baby. You can spend all day riding around, getting used to it. Try that big hill over by West Street; that would be so cool to go fast down there. Or you could ride around the park and over to the old quarry. I’ve gotta run and get ready, but you be careful and have fun now, OK?

  He gave her one last squeeze. I will. Thanks, Mum, you’re the best.

  As she disappeared back into the house, the boy struggled to drag the bike down the back stairs, cautious not to scratch the bright blue paintwork on the iron railings.

  9

  Walker and Co., Printers and Bookmakers, had operated out of the ground-floor offices of the Caxton building in the main street of Warwick since before both wars. It was situated between a bakery on one side and a fancy tea shop on the other, and to this day I can’t smell the aroma of baking bread without conjuring up the waft of guillotined paper and wet ink.

  There had been several apprenticeships on offer, but I had bypassed the building yards and barber shops to huddle over a linotype machine at Walker’s. My work was fiddly and slow, picking out the individual metal letters to line them up side by side, back to front. Any mistake earned me a clip over the ear from my supervisor or a dock in that month’s pay. I learnt to be meticulous with those letters.

  The concentration I needed to keep a steady hand and a keen eye kept my mind from wandering. I tried not to think about the past. I tried not to think about Emily, her harsh cries and the silence that followed. Her cooling skin, her half-closed eyes. I focused only on the future.

  For the first time there was no-one dictating the parameters of my life.

  I took lodgings with a family named Robinson. Mrs Robinson was a tough old bird with a cigarette permanently hanging out of the side of her mouth. She drank endless cups of tea and moaned about the lonely life of a war widow. Her husband had perished in the Great War, so I guess she’d had forty years for that loneliness to fester. She made ends meet by taking in boarders of the young, red-blooded male variety. She scared most of them off after the first month or so by wandering nonchalantly along the common hallway in nothing but her undergarments and a sheer lacy nightgown, emitting squeaks of feigned embarrassment when one of us ran into her unexpectedly. Like I said, she was lonely. But I didn’t mind her so much, and it would take more than what she presented me with to turf me out of the first room I could truly call my own.

  I say the Robinson family ’cause there were a few hangers-on. She had a son, Bert, who must’ve been pushing fifty – a completely useless bloke who couldn’t change a light bulb, let alone a tap washer, and spent most of his time and his mum’s money down at the pub. Then there were a couple of kids who were around a lot, although I could never quite figure out if they lived there or not. I think they must have been Mrs Robinson’s grandkids. There was a sallow slip of a girl who was about four or five, and a couple of skinny boys around nine or ten that come to mind every time I catch sight of that skinny kid next door. And there was a moody teenage girl around my age who liked to act all high and mighty around us boarders, and hang her silk stockings out to dry above the bathroom tub for us all to see. Took after her grandmother in that respect. Anyway, I’d heard stories about Mrs Robinson having a run of bad luck with her own kids. The mother of some of the grandkids, Gloria, apparently dropped them at Mrs Robinson’s door one day, announcing she’d left their prick of a father and was going off to America with a sailor. That’s what I heard, anyway. So all in all, I figured she was doing what she had to do, and getting on with it. And like I said, I could put up with her shenanigans if it meant having my own space.

  Not that the room was anything to write home about. It was at the rear of the house, overlooking the backyard dunny, and when the wind blew the wrong way I could practically diagnose the stomach complaints of anyone in the house. But it did have another double-hung window with a view out towards the park, and Mrs R had tried to make it nice with some homemade calico curtains. The bed was sturdy, but the mattress was saggy in the middle and had so many stains on it that I didn’t like to look at it when I changed the sheets. With my first pay cheque, I went down to Acton’s and bought myself my own pillow, the first time in my life I’d ever had one brand new. I had a pine wardrobe with hanging space, and a chest of drawers that doubled as a bedside table. There was a gooseneck lamp with a shabby greying fringe on the shade, and two pictures on the walls – a melancholy rendition of a forest glade, and a copy of one of those famous Vermeer paintings with a homely girl sitting in a parlour, engrossed in needlework. At least I assume it was a copy; I don’t think Mrs Robinson would have been in a position to afford the original. So that was my room, and for a while there, with my room and my new job and my relative freedom, I was what I suppose you would call happy.

  But like I said, it doesn’t take much for the bubble to burst. And in my case, all it took was Maybelline Frost.

  I often wonder what my life would’ve been like if I hadn’t ever set eyes on Maybelline, or if she hadn’t flashed her lashes at me, or if her uncle hadn’t happened to be a local copper, or if she didn’t turn out to have a
husband.

  But then I think about my life up to that point, and its trajectory since, and I honestly think those factors probably didn’t make a blind bit of difference.

  10

  West Street was quiet at that time of day, the rat run of peak-hour morning traffic long since passed. A clear path. The slight incline at the north end of the street quickly descended into a downhill run worthy of a ski resort before flattening out to a wide plateau. The boy was on his fifth run. He pedalled furiously until the drop began, and then held on for dear life as the bicycle careened down the asphalt, swerving past parked cars and the mad dog with the death wish that kept materialising halfway down, barking frantically. The road angled hard to the left but the boy continued straight ahead, towards the scraggly triangle of nature strip that hugged the footpath. Finally the bike and the road parted company, the boy shouting in triumph as his bike leapt over the kerb, landed forcefully on the gravel and grass, and coasted to a halt among the trees. It beat school any day. He dropped his bike to the ground and sprawled beside it to catch his breath. He closed his eyes and could feel the wind whooshing past his ears, his hair flying around his head, the amazing sense of freedom of the downward rush.

  What a fantastic present. Now he had wheels, transport. A means of escape from the gang that hung around the fish and chip shop. A way to get as far away from the house as quickly as possible, should the need arise. He felt a rush of warmth towards his mother, and decided to check out the gardens on the way home to see if he could find any flowers and put together a bunch for her.