Published: 26 Jun 2017

With the skiff back in the boat shed and McDonald declaring his mouth was dry, the three headed for his place for a few cold ones but had only travelled a few paces when they ran into Sam, hurrying towards them from the direction of the jetty and apparently in a state of bother.

“I saw you returning from up the beach.” Sam called from distance.

“We didn’t catch much.” Billings admitted holding up his empty fish box.

“McDonald caught a shark.” Awen laughed.

“Or more to the point the shark caught McDonald.” Billings corrected.

“The bugger took my favourite line.”

“It’s the weather, not much around at all.” Sam explained, his expression grave, as he came directly up to Awen.

“You better get yourself up to the hospital Elyan’s had an accident, Margaret’s there now.”

“Is he alright?” Awen asked somewhat shocked with the news, expecting the worse and all his mother’s expectations on his brother’s driving had come to fruition.

“He’ll live, a few cuts and bruises and maybe a broken arm.” Sam answered.

“What happened?”

“He crashed the car, he thinks someone tampered with the wheels as a wheel hub came right off and sent the car rolling into the scrub out on the Benson Point road.”

“Who would do that?” Awen doubtfully asked.

“He has his suspicions but can’t prove anything.”

“What’s the car like?”

“Like Ely it’s fixable, fortunately he was alone and wasn’t travelling fast at the time but it appears that while taking a slight bend in the road, the wheel went in one direction and the car another.”

As Awen entered into the hospital ward his mother was leaving, with her was Elyan’s blooded torn clothing from the accident and in a much worse state than his brother appeared to be. “These will be going straight into the rubbish bin.” She declared while inspecting the damage to a pair of jeans.

Flinching with pain Elyan forcefully called after her. “I don’t think so, they are my favourite pair!”

“How do you feel?” Awen asked sympathetically while approaching his brother’s bed. Margaret, still examining the damaged trousers departed without further discussion.

“How do you think I bloody well feel?” Elyan paused, flinching once again and coughed. “You make sure mum doesn’t chuck out those jeans, they are my rooting pants.”

Awen nodded his agreement. “How’s the arm?” He asked noticing his brother to be favouring his left arm.

“Not broken but badly bruised, you should see the gash on my leg and my chest feels as if fat Ruth Clint is sitting on it.”

“Better she’s sitting on your chest and not your face.” Awen laughed.

“Funny boy.”

“Got any stitches?” Awen asked as his brother lifted the bedding, displaying a wadding of bandage.

“I don’t think so but there was a lot of blood.” Elyan assured perceiving the obvious lack of trauma, “and the quack said if the entry was a couple of inches higher it could have hit an artery and it would have been curtains.” He assured in an attempt to increase the gravity of his condition.

“Sam said you reckon you know who tampered with the car?”

“Yea Bloody Barry Fields.”

“What makes you think that?” Awen asked.

“Who else would it be, I only had all wheels off to rotate them the day before and Mick Brenner can vouch I tightened the hubs; I made comment as I was doing so, I said nice and tight eh Mick, like your Trish’s box and he made comment about being as tight as my arse.”

“It’s an old car, maybe they worked loose.” Awen suggested believing Fields wasn’t brave enough to have done so.

“Bullshit Awen, he threatened to get me and he’s a coward, he would never have the guts to face me.” Elyan’s voice rose in anger causing more discomfort. He settled.

“What are you going to do about it; I hope you don’t do anything silly?”

“There’s more than one way to skin a cat,” Elyan grinned sadistically, “to skin a rat. Don’t you worry kid; I’ll think of something that is lasting and more than a few cuts and bruised ribs.”

“You could marry Stella Parks; that would really crap him off.” Awen mockingly suggested.

“Na we’ve finished.”

“What you’ve worn her out already?”

“She dumped me,” Elyan mumbled and pointed to the door, “brother be off, I’ve had enough of talking and make sure mum doesn’t chuck out those duds.”

On his way from visiting his brother, Awen chanced upon Roland Bishop arriving. “Hey Rol, what are you doing here?” He cautiously asked as they passed.

“My mother is having some kind of procedure.” Bishop spoke from three paces inside the door, his sad green eyes exploring Awen’s features. Searching, looking for some deep secret, for a sign of acknowledgement, a spark of similarity but there was none. If nothing else, Awen was well schooled in concealment. Bishop’s extended hesitation became uncomfortable, creating the need for one or the other to break. It was Bishop. “You’re a friend of John Ashe?” He asked nervously unable to think of a suitable topic for their situation.

“I know him, he mows my lawn but I wouldn’t call him a friend.” Awen disassociated with caution.

“Oh.”

“Why do you ask?”

“No reason, only I saw you walking with him along the beach some time back.”

“It must have been when I went to pay him for mowing.”

“Oh,”

“Again why do you ask?” Awen repeated, feeling he had taken the high ground within their conversation.

“Doesn’t matter, I better go and visit my mother.”

“Do you know my Aunt Alice’s house?” Awen quickly followed as Bishop turned to leave.

“Yes it’s in Asling Street. Why?”

“I’ll be over there most of the weekend, call in if you like.”

Awen watched as Bishop disappeared around the first corner towards the hospital wards. Taking a deep breath he chastised himself for making such a suggestion, hoping Bishop would forget his offer. Yet he wished to know what Bishop believed his association with John Ashe was. There was more, he discovered he was becoming attracted towards Bishop and couldn’t determine why but knew well enough to realise it was the same attraction he held for Sam and others.

On arriving home Awen met his mother as she put out the rubbish bin, while straining under its weight. “You should have left that for me.” He determined, helping with its final advance towards the footpath.

“It’s done now.” Margaret refitted the skew-whiff lid and returned to the house. As soon as she turned her back Awen lifted the lid, discovering his brother’s damaged pants. Hearing the clatter of metal on metal Margaret turned. “And don’t you go bringing them back into the house.” She demanded forcefully.

“I’ve been instructed; now you’ve got tomato sauce over them.” Awen complained.

“So leave them there, Ely will soon forget they existed and I’ve already bought him a new pair.”

“No mum I promised Ely.”

“I’m not going to wash them.” Margaret enforced.

“No matter, I’ll take them over to Alice’s on the weekend.” Awen folded the jeans and placed them under his arm.

“What are you going to do with Alice’s house?” Margaret once again asked as they entered together. It was becoming a continuum with Margaret as she hated loose ends.

“Nothing, I’ll keep it as it is.”

“It’s not a shrine you know, although the way Alice kept things, it may well have been.”

“I like it like that –what’s for tea?” Following his mother into the kitchen, Awen lifted the lid from a large black cast iron pot as it slowly bubbled on the stove.

“Lamb shanks but it looks like it will be you and I with Ely in hospital and you dad.” Margaret left her sentence unquantified and Awen knew better than to comment.

“Where’s Doris?” Awen enquired, noticing the house seemed unusually quiet for her visiting.

“She caught yesterday’s train while you were away fishing.” Margaret answered, fussing with her preparation for the night’s meal.

“That was sudden I thought she was here for another week.” Awen appeared relieved.

“She had a call from Greg and after ten minutes of romantic gibberish, she agreed to return home, besides the doctor said she was fine.”

“I must admit I’m somewhat relieved, she does go on.” Awen admitted freely.

Margaret released a smirk, “I wouldn’t admit so to you father but I must agree she can be somewhat tiresome.”

“Ely didn’t appear too badly injured.” Awen acknowledged, allowing a measure of relief to coat his finding.

“I do wish you hadn’t given Ely that car.”

“Accidents do happen to anyone, even dad crashed the Customline.” Awen offered as an example, remembering the day most clearly and how angered his father had been towards Elyan who he blamed for the slight crash.

“That was different.”

“I don’t see how, he was arguing with Ely at the time and not watching the road.”

“But no one was hurt.” Margaret sharply clarified.

Awen released a deep and conceited smirk, “only because dad drives so slowly even a kid on a bike could pass him by.”

“Don’t be obtuse, you know how petulant your brother can be; like a bull at a gate that young man. Go and wash up and I’ll put dinner on the table.”

Saturday morning found Awen at Alice’s washing his brother’s blood stained and damaged jeans. The first washing removed most of the tomato sauce but not the dried blood. He increased the water temperature and added half a packet of detergent before giving them a second wash, resulting in little more than a bubbling mess.

“Brother that’s about as good as they are going to get.” He commented while holding the jeans high for inspection. Awen hung the jeans on the line and returned to the kitchen, remembering he hadn’t yet found Alice’s diary. Margaret had been most positive she had not thrown out anything that represented a journal and previous searching failed to locate it, leaving Awen in a quandary where to recommence his search.

“Now where could it be, where would an old lady hide her thoughts?” He announced loudly and once again commenced to search through draws and cupboards, soon admitting he was only going through the motions as he had already searched everywhere twice.

“Now where could it be?” He repeated somewhat frustrated with his failure.

“Have you looked behind her bedroom wardrobe?” A voice reverberated inside his head and it wasn’t his.

“No,” Awen answered unconsciously before scanning the room for some intruder, discovering he was alone. It was true, when frightened the hair on the back of one’s neck does stand, also a cold shiver ran down his spine. He released a body shudder.

“Whose there!” Awen called loudly, his eyes flashing from corner to corner, room to room.

“Come on enough of this.” He followed.

“Hello,” – Silence.

“Come on whose there!” He repeated.

‘Settle you’re frightening yourself over nothing.’ He thought but it could not be so and was the second time he had heard the voice, the same voice.

“Hello!” He called once more and scanned the hall. It was empty, as were the bedrooms.

“Ashe is that you; are you hiding?” He asked knowing full it couldn’t be, nor was it his uncle as Sam was away fishing, besides it was a stranger’s voice, one he had not heard before and by its tone had the accent he knew from old newsreels at film nights from before the war, before the local drawl became influenced by a multitude of immigrants.

“I’m going to ignore you.” Awen suggested loudly from the lounge room as he quickly searched the kitchen and the back door. The door was closed and the wire screen snibbed, no one would have been able to lock it from the inside if quickly departing. One final search proved he was alone so he recommenced his hunt for Alice’s diary, taking notice of the suggestion he had heard, imagined or conjured out of the ether.

Once inside Alice’s bedroom Awen followed his ghostly suggestion and peered into the darkness behind the wardrobe but couldn’t see anything except for a general accumulation of dust and spider webbing. Manoeuvring the heavy closet away from the wall, he once again peered into the space and some distance along noticed something that appeared to be a book. Reaching in Awen extracted an old, dusty leather bound journal guarded by a small lock but no key.

“Well what do you know?” He laughed gleefully and forgetting his instructive voice he hurried back to the kitchen drawer where he had earlier found many individual keys of all shapes and sizes but nothing small enough to fit such a minute lock.

“It’s only a small lock and a little pressure with a knife would snap it.” Reaching for a large carving knife he faltered. “Maybe I shouldn’t, it would be like breaking into Alice’s grave and desecrate her body?” With the caution spoken he replaced the knife, yet he had to know what she may have written about Bert. “Later, I’ll look for the key first.” At least using the key would be more akin to an invitation than forcing the lock.

Placing the diary aside Awen once again concentrated on the voice. Firstly did it frighten him, he guessed not. Did he believe he was going senile? Again negative, surely only old folk became so. Influence – that is what he was experiencing. He was becoming influenced by imagination from the solitude he felt within the cottage, as he was not accustomed to being alone within a relatively strange house. Yet the voice was strong and why would he conjure to search in the exact spot he found the diary. Coincidence, besides it was the only spot he hadn’t searched before, the diary had to be there.

Eventually curiosity became stronger than loyalty towards Alice’s memory and unable to find the journal’s key, Awen employed the knife blade. “Sorry Alice,” he apologised as with ease the lock sprung open and before his eyes, in the finest fountain pen ink, were Alice’s most private thoughts.

Quickly Awen turned to the first page and the entry date which didn’t mean a great deal. It was the first lines that were most disappointing, declaring her original journal was missing, blaming her mother to be the perpetrator for its loss, while the written description of her mother was none so gentle, almost insulting but guarded, as if written in hope that her mother would discover her displeasure.

The journal’s first paragraphs did relate to Bert and how she missed him, as did most pages but there wasn’t a single word on his demise. Awen turned to the final pages which equally didn’t make sense, filled mostly with imaginary conversations and arguments with her brother. He also found the last journal entry was before the first war and if there were subsequent journals he believed they would be most difficult to find as he had searched the house from front to back and there were no more cupboards to look behind.

“Well that wasn’t much use.” Awen sighed and closed the journal. “She must have later diaries or how would Ashe have known she kept a diary.” With a deep and disappointed breath he continued. “Maybe she disposed of them before she died and forgot about this one. I guess I should check with the newspaper and see if Bert had a death notice.”

Awen placed the journal into a small cardboard box set aside to hold anything he chanced to find on Bert. Inside he spied the photograph of Bert. He once again marvelled at the likeness but somehow Bert’s eyes were different. It wasn’t their shape or set but they displayed a heart wrenching sadness.

“What troubled you Bert?” Awen softly asked.

“What are you hiding?”

“If only a photograph could speak.”

Placing the photograph back into the box, Awen went to Bert’s room where he launched a more thorough search through the trunk, this time removing the contents, placing each item neatly on the floor according to its nature. Once more it was the letters that most held his interest. Again he read their contents but nothing in their pages gave indication to the identity of the sender, instead there appeared to be a conscious attempt to disguise the sender’s identity and much of what was written appeared to be shielded, even the mention of separation, except for the first, was somewhat guarded. Awen replaced the contents, deciding on his first opportunity he would visit the local news paper.

That night Awen’s dreaming was of Bradshaw Island and the cairn. He was seated at its side while concentrating on the stones. Someone behind spoke and it was the voice of Alice but when he turned it greet her he found a stranger. “Go on lad ask him who he is?” the voice encouragingly advocated.

“You can’t converse with the dead.” Awen complained and returned his gaze to the cairn.

“Sometimes you can.”

Awen was unconvinced but followed the instructions. “Who are you?” he asked loudly. Instead of receiving a reply an image commenced to rise from the cold ground but before he could recognise it to even be human he awoke in sweat. ‘Maybe if I could quickly return to sleep the dream would continue,’ he thought as his mind travelled through its semiconscious state to awake but the fright of the dream would not allow him to sleep and he lay thinking about the apparition until the first glimpse of sunlight lifted the darkness from the room.

Sunday’s distant church bells sounded before Awen eventually met the day. After his restless night he had drawn the curtains and drifted back into an uneasy slumber. During his second mug of tea he sunk into the calm of Alice’s house, far away from his mother’s constant complaining as she cleaned an already clean house, the snoring from Elyan’s room as he slept away the previous night’s grog and his father’s absence, made obvious by a wife’s silent melancholy. Now only the occasional sound of a song bird looking for insects within the spread of the Elderberry beside the kitchen door broke his tranquillity.

“I could get used to this.” He sighed.

“Yes it is peaceful.”

“Whose there!” Awen bolted from his chair looking one way than another but was alone. Again the voice came from inside his head not the room and recognised as the same as he had imagined previously. “There’s a word for this kind of behaviour.” He uttered loudly. “I’m going schizo, next I’ll be having arguments with myself,” he laughed, “I already am.” Settling he rinsed his tea mug, thinking it only appeared to happen while at Alice’s and not at home or elsewhere, maybe he was spooking himself because of Bert, maybe he should give up discovering more about Bert but first he would enquire at the local paper, if nothing else he needed to know why Bert died so young.

Awen had completely forgotten his invite to Bishop until he heard his name called from the back of the house. Why he had offered the invitation was an uncertainty. Was it because of the lengthy pause in conversation when they met at the hospital, when Bishop hung on the moment longer that etiquette decreed, or was there a more menacing motive driven by sexual desire? Grimacing he shook away the thought, believing it had to be his need to know if Bishop had inspirations about his visit to John Ashe.

“Is there anyone home?” The familiar voice came from close to the open back door.

“I’m in here,”

“I knocked at the front.” It was Bishop.

“Oh it’s you Bishop.”

“You did say call by.” Bishop’s tone was laced with nervous embarrassment.

“That I did.”

“I was passing anyway.” Bishop excused, not wishing to appear too eager.

“That’s fine come in.” Awen clumsily offered. Standing to one side he showed the lad into the kitchen.

“I can’t stay long I’m supposed to visit my Grandmother, she lives in the next street, the house with the overgrown fence number seven, painted in that strange blue colour.” Bishop added to his excuse.

“I know that Rol, want tea, beer?”

“Suppose a beer would go down just fine.” Bishop agreed his eyes darting from one room to the other. “Bit fancy.” He observed.

“The house was left to me by Alice and I haven’t changed anything yet.” Awen protested not wishing to be associated with the decor.

“A bit girly,” Bishop added.

“I guess that is because Alice was a woman.” Awen found the opener and lifted the tops from two stubby bottles of beer. Passing one to Bishop he continued. “What happened between you and Sharon, we all thought you two would were a certainty for church bells?”

“I guess sometimes things don’t go to plan.” Bishop timidly answered.

“I guess they don’t.”

“Who’s the bloke in the pic?” Bishop asked picking up the photograph of Bert from where Awen had left it the previous night.

“He was Alice’s brother; I guess my great, great uncle.”

“I thought it was you in fancy dress.”

“I’m trying to find out about him.”

“Why don’t you talk to Betty Climpson she knows everything about everyone, especially dead blokes.” Bishop suggested and downed half his beer in one gulp.

“I may do that, do you know her?”

“I should, she’s my aunt; if you like I can ask her for you.”

“I’ll write down what information I have but it’s not a lot.” Finding an old envelope he commenced to write but the biro was dry. A second was equally dry, the third worked. “I don’t know why people keep pens that don’t work. Alice has a drawer full of them.” He stated as he binned the dry pens. “His name was Bert Thomas, I suppose that is the shorten version of Albert and I think he probably died around Eighteen ninety eight or ninety nine. Bishop accepted the information and placed it into his pocket.

“You’re a mate of McDonald, does he say much?” Bishop hesitantly asked and finished his beer.

“Want another?”

“I better not; I can’t arrive at the old girl’s smelling like a brewery.”

“You were in our year at school you know as much about McDonald as I do.” Awen suggested.

“True but we never kicked around together.”

“Is that so?” Awen released a knowing smirk which Bishop ignored, while the devil in Awen couldn’t leave well enough alone. “Didn’t the two of you hang around when you were kids?”

“Why do you say that?”

Awen noticed Bishop’s scarlet blush, “No reason I thought I remembered the two of you as mates.”

“Maybe so I don’t remember.” Bishop anxiously checked the time. “I should be off.” Passing his empty bottle to Awen he made for the door. “If I find out anything about your uncle I’ll let you know.”

“I would appreciate it.”

“Suppose I’ll see you at the pub.” Bishop suggested while fiddling with the knob on the fly wire door as if there was an unknown force preventing him from leaving.

“No if you have anything come around here, I’ll be staying most weekends.”

“Righto,” Bishop responded and was gone.

“Umm,” Awen returned to the kitchen, “what do you think of that?” he spoke to the silence within the room, expecting his voice to comment but there was none.

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