The Promise Seed Read online

  One more go down the hill, and then he might cycle all the way out to the old water tower.

  …

  Two hours later he was pushing towards home, his aching legs like lead. He was happy and exhausted in equal measure. Hadn’t ended up as such a bad day after all.

  The air was crisp with late-autumn dusk. A flock of rainbow lorikeets, screeching on the wing, chased a pair of noisy mynahs before perching, victorious, upon the large branch of a eucalypt shading the footpath. The boy stopped to watch the mass of colourful birds hanging upside down, swaying, bickering over the seeds in a bird feeder.

  He slowed as he approached the old man’s place next door. A bush inside the fence was a riot of purple, the blooms boasting cheeky yellow bursts at their throats. The boy hesitated. There was no sign of the old man, no twitching of curtains at the front windows. He stood astride the bike, sensing the air. He swung his leg over, laid his bike gently on the ground and jumped the fence. The flowers were sturdy bells complete with intricate black tracery decorating the yellow. He picked four, breaking the stems as far down as he could.

  A movement caught his eye: the old man was standing beside the wooden front steps. His trousers were pulled up almost to his armpits, and his faded grey shirt had frayed cuffs. He stared calmly at the boy.

  The boy froze, undecided whether to bolt back over the fence with or without the flowers.

  Nice bike, the old man said.

  The boy took a possessive step backwards, his eyes fixed on the old man, his mouth a tight line.

  Is it new?

  The boy nodded mutely. He’d been bursting to show it off to someone, anyone.

  Mind if I take a gander?

  The old man made his way towards the gate and out to the footpath. The boy noticed the way he shuffled along, as if his feet hurt. For one apprehensive moment he was afraid the old man would kick the bike or haul it back into his yard, but he merely hunched over, his hands planted on his knees, and inspected it.

  The boy wanted to stand next to him, to demonstrate the bell and explain the brakes, but he stood paralysed with the flowers in his hands. Eventually the old man swung his head up and gave the boy a grimace.

  Well, come on then, I can’t stand here all day. Are you going to ride it for me or not? Give me those flowers, will ya, you’ll squash them into mush the way you’re gripping them. Give them here and I’ll mind them for you while you show me what this machine can do.

  A cheeky grin found its way onto the boy’s face. He approached the old man and tentatively handed him the broken blooms. The old man accepted them, shaking his head at the crude way they had been wrenched from the bush. The boy lifted the bike and sat astride it. He rode a little way up the street, returned and sped past the old man, his hands in the air, his face aglow. He skidded to a halt, circled, and jumped the bike in a series of sideways leaps he had been practising all day, before speeding up again and riding across the street and around the old man in a victory lap. His eyes were glittering spheres.

  Well now, that’s mighty impressive. You know, I had a bike that colour when I was your age. ’Course I was much more skilled, but I expect you’ll get the hang of it.

  His teasing expression stopped the boy’s protest.

  It’s new, you say.

  Yeah, birthday present. Today’s my birthday.

  You don’t say. How about that. What are you, nine?

  Ten. Ten today.

  Ten. That’s a mighty fine age for a boy to be. Ten. Believe it or not, I was ten once. Long time ago now, though.

  He handed the boy the flowers.

  Who’re they for?

  My mum. To say thanks. For the bike.

  Hmm. Well, how about you come inside and I’ll find some proper shears and we’ll go round the back and you can choose some more, hey? Get yourself a decent bunch instead of these looking like something the cat dragged in. I might even find you a lemonade.

  The boy hesitated.

  I’m not supposed to go into a stranger’s house, he said finally.

  Hmm. I see. Quite right too. Although we’re hardly strangers now, are we, we’re neighbours. But anyway. Hmm. Well, how about this then. How about you come round to the side there, and stand right there near your fence, and I’ll go inside and get the scissors and then we can choose some flowers together round the back. Would that be all right, do you think? If you don’t come in the house?

  He turned and made his way gingerly to the stairs without waiting for a reply.

  The boy smiled. That’d be OK, I guess. He added, And … I’m sorry. For taking the flowers without asking.

  The old man paused momentarily but did not look around, so the boy didn’t see his lips curl into a smile.

  Hmm, he said.

  11

  Maybelline Frost was a looker, no doubt about it. Tall for a girl, about five foot nine, with an hourglass figure she didn’t bother to hide. Curves in all the right places. She liked to wear tight skirts and low-cut tops that didn’t leave much to the imagination. Nowadays she’d probably blend right in, but back then she certainly turned some heads. Red was her favourite colour. Red lips, red nails long as talons. Bleached blonde hair that cascaded around her face. Pale skin, like she didn’t see enough sun.

  She worked in the bakery next to Walker and Co. Well, I say worked there, but her colleagues might have disagreed. Situation was, Maybelline Frost – a mere twenty-one years old and in the prime of her life – was married to Colin Frost, the baker, who must have been fifty if he was a day. Old Colin never saw the sun either. He was at work kneading dough and firing up the ovens from 3 am. He’d emerge about lunchtime all covered in flour, like a creepy snowman, and he’d amble off home and sleep until the early evening. All this I found out later, of course. Their routine. At first, all I knew was Maybelline Frost, the look of her, the scent of her perfume as she leant against the wall outside the bakery, luring in the customers. Being one of the youngest apprentices, I used to do the lunch run. I’d go around Walker’s and collect everyone’s change and then I’d go next door and purchase whatever they’d all ordered – sausage rolls, pies, thick white-bread sandwiches with ham and pickle fillings.

  They should’ve warned me. It was sport to them, I suppose. The new boy, doesn’t know jack. I’ll bet they all sat back and watched, laughing their heads off, while I proceeded to make a complete fool of myself. She was like a painted fly, that woman, and I was the sucker fish all too keen to take the bait.

  Sugar, she’d call me. Sugar. Like in the movies. Hi, sugar. How you doing this morning, sugar? with the faint trace of her Oklahoma roots. I heard later that Maybelline had grown up like a wild blossoming weed in the midst of her southern family’s carefully manicured flowerbed of a life. They were church people, I heard, Baptist, and real strict. But apparently at thirteen Maybelline was drinking and all, and by fifteen she’d hooked up with a sailor and got herself pregnant. I never did quite work out how the family sorted out the intricacies and inconveniences, but the upshot was Maybelline got transported halfway across the world to her aunt and uncle in Australia. I guess her parents figured some distance wouldn’t hurt and, with her uncle being a copper and all, I s’pose they thought he’d pull her into line. Seems maybe Maybelline’s mother hadn’t seen her brother in a while, ’cause while Jack Summers was a policeman all right, that’s about as far as his reputation ran – in title only. Uncle Jack was on the take left, right and centre, in tight with all the local mischief-makers and petty crims. And when he got bored doing deals, he’d slap his missus around a bit. She was long-suffering, that one. Anyway, to cut a long story short, Jack owed Colin Frost a favour. There were many a morning Uncle Jack would be at the bakery before sunrise, and if anyone thought it was strange that the local police chief was helping the baker unload his flour, I never heard anyone voice the opinion, although rumour had it that there was more than
self-raising in those daily deliveries. But Colin turned a blind eye and so, to even things up, Jack introduced his fresh-off-the-boat niece – Maybelline – to his old pal Colin, and within three months they were married. Life with Colin must have looked more attractive than going back home to Ma and Pa. And if that was the case, then home in the States must have been real bleak.

  Actually, with the clear vision of hindsight, I feel a touch sorry for Colin. His first wife had run off with the fishmonger early in their marriage, and he’d had to deal with a lot of jokes about loaves and fishes. And while getting hitched to twenty-one-year-old Maybelline might have seemed like a sweet piece of luck to old Colin, she was quite a handful. At the time of my Maybelline troubles, she and Colin had been married a year or so, and he was in the throes of protective jealousy. To look at her, though, you’d never even tell she was spoken for.

  It ended badly, of course. Me with my newfound job and income and aspirations, Maybelline starting to realise that maybe escaping to Colin and the bakery wasn’t such a grand idea after all. Add some flirtation from her and an eager response from me, and before I knew it I was pinned against the wall in the alley behind Thommo’s pub, with two big galahs in coppers’ uniforms holding me down while Jack Summers delivered well-aimed punches to my face and stomach with each sentence of the lecture he was giving me about keeping my eyes off other blokes’ women.

  When dawn broke the next morning, the sunlight bored a hole right through my skull and I was sure I could feel my brains oozing out. My left eye was swollen shut, my lips were stuck together with dried blood, and my ribs hurt like at least three were broken.

  And then the day got worse.

  I stumbled up the path to Mrs Robinson’s, hoping for a bath and some sympathy. I found my bags, roughly packed, sitting on the porch. The teenage girl who had been practising sneering at me had perfected it – she informed me that fighting was not allowed and that as only young men of reputable character were welcome in their home, I was out on my ear.

  When I arrived at work later that day, full of apologies for my tardiness, I was regretfully informed by Mr Walker that he had decided to let me go.

  Go where? I wanted to ask.

  I very quickly discovered that the long arm of the law could reach out its grubby tentacles very far indeed, and that when a no-hoper like me was down, there was no limit to the kickings that could be inflicted.

  12

  The morning was grey and chill, and by late afternoon the weather had not improved. Sudden flurries of wind brought a scattering of leaves and timid raindrops. The boy was immersed in the adventure and danger of Treasure Island while huddled on the verandah. Every so often a rent in the ominous clouds would allow a shaft of sunlight to pierce through with ferocious warmth. The boy wriggled his toes. He rested the book against his chest, leant back and closed his eyes, picturing the scene in the book as clearly as a movie at the cinema. The clouds parted again. The warmth on his face made him drowsy. He marked his page and made his way towards the fence, the book dangling from his hand.

  The old man was out in the yard again. The boy couldn’t imagine what he found to do out there all day. He seemed to have a never-ending routine of weeding and watering and pruning and chicken feeding. His garden certainly seemed much better cared for than the boy’s patch of tangled weeds and gnarled bushes. But it wasn’t formal or overdone – just sort of loved. The boy found a place behind a clump of trailing vine that shrouded an old hibiscus. He wrapped his arms around his knees and the book, and watched.

  The chickens were out of their pen, strutting and pecking at whatever small bugs were brave enough or stupid enough to be wandering about the yard in broad daylight. The boy listened. Amongst the scratching and occasional clucking of the birds, he could hear another sound – a steady cheeping. He crept closer to the fence. Definitely the peeping of new chicks. He quickly scanned the yard. The old man had disappeared into the shed. The boy could hear him humming, and the muffled sounds of implements being shifted around. The old man reappeared carrying a large pair of shears, then climbed the back stairs in his lopsided gait and went into the house.

  The boy scrambled over the palings, dropping with a soft thud to the ground. He wedged his book into the forked branch of a scrubby bush, out of reach of the chooks, and made his way closer to the henhouse, peering into the murky interior. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he could make out five, no, six baby chicks in a small wire enclosure at the back of the structure. They circled in a panic as he approached, chirping and flapping their wings. Three yellow, two with brown and white markings, and one the velvety black of a night sky, its round eyes sparkling like two stars. The boy searched the wire netting until he discovered a crude latch. He unwound the wire securing it, reached in and attempted to grab the black chick. The six small creatures went mad, hopping and cheeping loudly. He didn’t want to grab too hard or too fast and hurt them. His hand chased them around the enclosure. He gave up on catching the black chick – he would settle for any of them – but the soft, slippery down of their coats eluded him.

  After a while he stopped trying. He sat and watched as they calmed down, their urgent chirps quieting as they practised pecking the ground and fluffing their feathers.

  Very slowly, the boy returned his hand to the cage, gradually edging closer and closer to the birds, until his fingers sat in their midst. The chicks hurried against him, their warm bodies brushing his skin. His patience paid off – the black chick, as oblivious to his hand as to the old bit of corn cob beside it, settled backwards into his embrace, contentedly pecking at the ground. Slowly … slowly … and then the boy closed his fingers around the chick and lifted him triumphantly.

  He settled back on his haunches against the henhouse wall, the black chick cupped in his hands. He lifted one finger, then two, and peeked in at the tiny animal nestled in his hands. He could feel its scratchy feet grazing his palm. He could feel its heart beating fast. The boy didn’t know if that was normal, or if the poor thing was panicked. Its glittering eyes stared up at him. Gradually he splayed his fingers open. The bird hopped cautiously, and then fluttered upwards in an abrupt flap. The boy caught it and laughed as the chick stretched its wings and jumped from one hand to the other, cheeping noisily, its siblings answering from below.

  I see you’ve met my new girls.

  The boy glanced up nervously. The chick saw its chance and plunged into the void, landing with a bruised squeak on the ground. The old man strode forward and scooped it into his hand before it had time to decide which way to run.

  Firm but gentle, that’s the key, he said. Don’t give ’em a chance to think. He dropped the chick back into the boy’s hands. Like chicks, do you?

  Are they girls then? the boy asked. He patted the downy feathers with one outstretched finger.

  That’s right, girls. No use for the boys, only grow up to be noisy buggers. Not real good egg layers, either, he said.

  The boy glanced up, and caught the old man’s wink.

  A beat of silence.

  I’ve never held one before, he said quietly.

  The old man took a step back in mock horror. Never? Never held a chick? Aarr, what a deprived life you youngsters lead nowadays. Here, I’ll tell you what. How about we let them all out into the yard for a bit of a scratch?

  The boy’s eyes widened.

  On one condition though, mind. My legs aren’t what they used to be, and I’m in no fit state to be running after them. That’s why they’ve been stuck inside here the last few days. Be good for them to get out, get some sunshine, maybe find a worm to worry. But we can only do it if you promise to help me get them all back in again once we’re done watching them have some fun. What do you reckon, deal?

  He held out his hand. The boy cradled the chick with his left hand against his chest, and shook the old man’s hand solemnly.

  Deal, he said. A small smile curled around his l
ips and ignited his eyes.

  13

  After the business with Maybelline Frost, I drifted along for a time, homeless and unemployed, all that pain behind me, and my dead sister like a millstone round my neck.

  I took in labouring work when I could get it, or fruit picking with foreign workers on the outlying farms, where the owners didn’t much care what you’d done as long as you could fill up a basket without bruising the fruit.

  I still caught sight of her every now and then when I went into town, craving a cold beer to wash the dust from my throat. And I’d see her, red nails flashing in the sun, her long hair bouncing down her back. I don’t think she was a bad ’un, not really. She can’t have had an easy life, banished from home, losing the baby, winding up married to someone old enough to be her father. I guess she didn’t know any better. She’d catch my eye, and there’d be all sorts of things passing across her face – a timid hunger, like she was starving for some more of those stolen kisses we’d shared, and maybe regret at the thought that she wasn’t going to get any more. ’Cause I’d learnt my lesson, well and truly. I kept my distance. I’d still get the evil eye from Jack Summers and his mates from the constabulary if ever I strayed too close, and after a few months of feeling like an intruder in the place, or at least a visitor who’s outstayed his welcome, I decided to move on.

  I caught a lift with a truck driver who was transporting a load of grapes. I still recall the scent of the fruit, and the sound of Doris Day on the radio singing ‘Que Sera Sera’, and thinking, yep, that’s it, whatever will be will be.

  There’s something to be said for the kind of freedom that allows a man to up sticks and leave town, all his worldly possessions carried in his two hands, to go wherever the wind blows him.

  At the end of that long, hot drive, I climbed down from the cab and the truckie threw my two bags after me onto the dust at my feet. I raised my hand but the rig was already rolling.