Beyond the Crushing Waves, page 23
I realise it’s because he holds the power of life and death over my son. Is he going to tell me something else is wrong? Or that the treatment is working and everything is fine? I wonder a lot of things. Every possible scenario is sailing through my head as Doctor Harris checks Brody from top to bottom with various implements and machinery, then looks over his file.
He sits at his desk, spectacles on the very tip of his nose, and clicks away at his computer in silence for a few minutes. Finally, he faces me and removes the spectacles, setting them on the desk in front of him. I sit across from him with Brody wrapped and snoozing in my arms.
“Mia, I’m afraid the medication isn’t doing what we’d hoped it would. We’ll have to proceed with the surgery.”
26
January 1954
Mary
The scent of fresh-baked bread filled the air. Flour dusted every surface and coated Mary’s hands. Someone had left it behind on the bench after mixing a batch of bread dough. The scent of it tickled her nose. She resisted the pull of a sneeze and instead held her breath until the feeling passed. Beside her, Lottie drew the outline of a doll in flour on the bench. Her nose was dusted with white, and her hair had a white tinge. Mary giggled.
“You look like an old woman,” she said.
Lottie’s nose wrinkled. “So do you.”
“Don’t make a mess,” admonished Faith, traipsing into the kitchen with two loaves of bread and hoisting them onto the bench. Both had partially blackened tops and they made a hollow thud as they hit the bench.
“We weren’t,” replied Mary.
Faith rolled her eyes. “Okay, I’ll bring in the rest of the bread the boys baked in the bakehouse this morning. Your job is to clean up this mess and make two sandwiches each for sixty kids for our lunch bags. We all take turns—today’s your turn.”
“How do we make a sandwich?” asked Lottie, eyeing the bread with suspicion.
Faith sighed. “Haven’t you two ever made sandwiches before? What have you been doing all your lives — waited on hand and foot, huh?”
“We usually had nought but butter for our bread,” replied Mary.
That seemed to shut up Faith, who inhaled a quick breath. “Fine, you slice these loaves, spread butter on one of the slices, then look in the cupboard on the cold shelf for leftovers.” She strode to the cupboard and plucked one door open, then bent to scan the shelves. “If there aren’t any leftovers, we usually have Vegemite.” She pulled a large tray covered with a waxed cloth from the cold shelf and shoved it onto the bench beside the bread. “Lamb’s brains from last night’s supper.”
Mary’s stomach heaved at the sight of the cold brains. She swallowed. “Is that all?”
“Be grateful. Some days there’s nothing left over. When you run out of the brains, there’s a jar of pickles in the fridge you can use.”
“Pickle sandwiches?” questioned Mary.
“Yep.”
It was the first day of school after the summer holidays. The summer had been a long one, longer than any Mary experienced in her life before. Living with Mam in London, the warm months came and went in a mad dash. Summers were short and sunny days infrequent. This summer, she’d experienced a kind of heat that zapped every ounce of energy from her body and left her with a consistently reddened tan on her face, arms and legs.
She hadn’t attended school back in England, though Mam often promised they would. So, the prospect of attending now both excited her and twisted a ball of nerves that ground in her gut.
What if she couldn’t keep up with the other kids? She hated to be stupid in front of the class. She was nine years old, and the only reading she’d done was with Harry in the library on board the ship from England to Australia. She was bound to be the worst reader of the group. Not to mention all the other important things children learned in school that she knew nothing about.
As she and Lottie sliced the loaves of bread, she thought about all the things that could go wrong at school, and how much she longed to know things, to read, to write, and to learn. She wanted so badly to be the kind of child others could look up to, but she knew it was impossible. She’d always be Mary Roberts, a gutter child from the East End whose own workhouse mother didn’t want her.
The bread, when sliced, was only partially cooked. Hard and burned to charcoal on top, but doughy and undercooked in the centre of the loaf. They did the best they could putting the sandwiches together and packaging them in brown paper bags that they lined up along a set of tables at one end of the kitchen. Before long, children filed into the room in dribs and drabs to collect their paper bag.
When, finally, they were done, Mary wanted to take a long nap. Her arms ached, her head throbbed—her legs wanted to crumple beneath her. But the breakfast bell rang. So, they dusted themselves off and hurried to Nuffield Hall to eat, their own lunch bags under their arms.
“When Mam comes to meet us, I’m never going to eat lamb’s brains again,” said Lottie with a shudder as they found their place at their table. “Or those wee black creatures in my porridge. More like splodge than porridge, if you ask me. That’s what some of the other kids call it.”
Mary frowned. “Mam isn’t coming.” She’d been avoiding this conversation. But she was tired and hungry and not looking forward to the weevil-filled mush that passed as a breakfast food at the farm.
Lottie blinked. “She is too. She told us she was coming.”
“She’s not coming. You might as well get used to it.”
Lottie’s eyes filled with tears. “Don’t say that.”
It was too much. Everything she’d been through, all the lies she’d told herself for so long about why they were alone, why Mam didn’t love them. She couldn’t take any more. And she couldn’t face Lottie’s tears. Not now, after spending the entire morning bent over half-cooked lamb’s brain sandwiches that she’d be expected to eat on her first day at school.
“Don’t bring her up again, or I’ll give you something to cry about,” she spat.
It was one of Mam’s favourite sayings. She’d used it when Mary was upset — whether over a scraped knee or an empty cupboard when her stomach growled so loud, she was sure it’d wake the neighbour’s baby and then they’d never hear the end of it.
Mam hated the sound of a wailing baby more than she hated to be interrupted when she was with one of the men she brought back to the flat after an evening out. She couldn’t get into the pub, where only men were allowed, but in the warmer months she’d spent her evening waiting around outside the off license for gentlemen friends, as she called them. When it was too cold, she wouldn’t stay, but passed by to see if any of the men would shout her a bottle of drink or walk her home.
Mary and Lottie spent many an evening tiptoeing around the living room so as not to wake the neighbours’ baby. The woman seemed to have a new one every single year that they lived next door. There was always someone crying, it seemed to Mary.
Lottie’s attempts to bite back her tears after Mary’s harsh words irritated her further still. So, she sat on her hands waiting for her bowl to be filled with splodge and stared directly ahead at the wall. The chatter and din of children around her blocked out Lottie’s sniffles and she forced herself to think of something else, anything else, other than her sister’s pain. By the time she’d finished her bowl of porridge, which she ate without once thinking of the weevils, the knot of resentment in her chest had loosened and she slipped her hand into Lottie’s as they walked with the other children to the schoolhouse.
27
January 1954
Harry
The sun hung over the horizon. It climbed steadily through the bright blue morning sky, chunks of sunshine slanting golden over the sheep paddocks and into the slaughterhouse. Harry pressed against the timber fence, arms folded and one foot propped up on the lowest railing as he watched the sheep traverse the chute. A group of fifteen- and sixteen-year-old boys pushed the sheep up the chute, bleating and kicking to where two boys waited to butcher them. They would serve as dinner for the children and staff that evening.
Beside Harry, Max studied the sheep with a cigarette between his lips. He pulled it free, exhaled a cloud of smoke and squinted into the sun. He turned to lean his back against the fence as he took another drag.
“That’ll be us in a few years.”
“Trainees?” asked Harry.
Max shrugged. “Yep. No more schooling, no more history books or maths problems. Just butchering sheep, milking cows, feeding chooks, harvesting wheat, baking bread and picking peaches in the orchards.”
“It’s not so bad, I guess,” replied Harry. “What else would you do with your life?”
“What do you mean?”
Harry peered up at the sky and watched a fluffy white cloud billow into various different shapes, transforming in slow motion. “I dunno. If you could do anything at all, what would you do?”
Max glanced at him, his eyes dark. Then he looked away. “Don’t laugh.”
“I won’t.”
“I’ve given up on the idea of accounts. I’m terrible at maths. I’d make films.”
“What?” Harry faced him with narrowed eyes.
“You know, like at the cinema. I saw one once, on that big ship that brought me here years ago. It was in black and white and there wasn’t much to the storyline, but still… it made me feel good. Every now and then, Forrest takes us all to Orange on a Saturday and lets us watch a reel at the pictures there. The room is all red velvet and plush seats, we can eat popcorn until we’re sick from all the salt, and I feel for a little while as though I’m somewhere exotic living someone else’s life. I can be someone different, someone who’s got a family, someone with a future other than —” He waved a hand around at the village. “This.”
Harry knew what he meant. There was something special about watching a film. He’d seen two in his life, and both had left an impression on him. “I think that’d be grand.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, you should do it.”
Max didn’t look up. “I’ll get right on that. I’m pretty sure they let high school dropouts make films. Right?” He laughed, pushing away from the fence with a heel on the railing. “Come on, let’s go before we’re late for cricket practice. Forrest will have a kitten if we lose this game to the town kids.”
Max flicked the butt of his hand-rolled cigarette to the ground, then picked up a rock to smash the end into the dirt. They jogged together back through the village, laughing and joking, stopping to chat along the way. Max knew everyone, and he introduced Harry whenever they came across someone new. He felt more at home now. The farm was familiar to him, the birdcalls and bleating of sheep less mysterious and foreign. The buildings had names—he’d tramped every path and knew where they led.
When they reached Brown Cottage, they found it empty. Max double-checked every room, but there was no one around. He set off at a trot. “They’ve already left and we’re late.”
Harry jogged beside him, and before long they arrived at the front paddock, which Forrest had made two of the senior boys mow into a cricket field with a slightly crooked pitch. Max seemed tense, but Harry didn’t pay attention. He was more interested in the game already underway. He’d played cricket occasionally back in England, but never anything serious. The game that’d been set with the team from Molong sent a thrill of anticipation through his veins. The hope of winning made his gut squirm with nerves.
Forrest stood at the gate, a cricket bat in one hand. He pulled the wire gate shut and was looping a chain around the fence post when Max arrived with Harry behind him.
“You’re late, Max,” barked Forrest, his face red.
“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,” replied Max in a cheerful voice, stepping through the opening.
The bat, when it connected with Max’s back, surprised Harry. Forrest swung it with all his might. Harry jumped away from Forrest’s swing and stumbled over a tussock of grass, thudding to the ground on his rear. Harry gaped as Max collapsed in front of him with a yelp. The principal stood hulking over Max where he lay, his giant muscled arms and chest heaving with the aftereffects of what he’d done.
“Don’t be late again,” he growled. “Now get up and join in with practice. We’re gonna need all the help we can get with this lousy team.”
He marched back to where the rest of the children played. One boy was running back and forth on the pitch. Another was bowling. A few had witnessed the attack on Max and stood watching, shock written across their features. No one moved towards Max or said anything to him or to Forrest.
Harry scrambled across the grass to where Max lay on his side, his eyes shut and his mouth open as he gasped for breath.
“Max, are you okay?”
Max didn’t move, but his hazel eyes blinked open and focused on Harry’s face. They were dark with pain. “Harry, I can’t move.”
His words were expelled on a gasp.
Harry’s heart battered against his rib cage as adrenaline surged through his veins. His thoughts clouded with fury. “I’m gonna get him for this…” He rose to his feet, but Max’s voice cut through the tumult of blood thundering through his veins.
“No, Harry. Don’t do it. You won’t win. He’s a brute, and he doesn’t take any backchat or misbehaviour. Help me up, okay?”
Max reached out a hand and Harry took it with both his own. With a grunt, he leaned back and did what he could to help Max to his feet. But Max cried out, agony lacing his voice with tears. Harry lowered him slowly to the ground again. He rolled onto his back and stared up at the sky, breathing hard.
“I can’t do it. I can’t get up.”
“Wait here, I’ll get help.”
He rushed over to where Forrest was showing one of the younger boys how to grip the cricket bat.
“Mr Forrest?”
The principal spun to face him, his bulbous nose red from the sun, his hair askew in the wind. “Yes?”
“Max can’t move. He can’t stand up.”
Forrest’s gaze wandered to where Max lay still in the distance. “Huh? Oh. Run up and find the nurse, will you?”
Harry offered a brief nod, then waited until Forrest made his way over to Max’s side before sprinting back up the hill to the village. And as he ran, the anger that’d stirred inside him built and grew until it consumed him.
The next day, Harry spent the morning lazing on the front verandah at the cottage. He didn’t have any morning chores that day, and with Max in the hospital in Orange, he had no one to talk to either. All he wanted to do was get away from this place. To go home to England and never think about Fairbridge Farm School again for the rest of his days.
He plucked a smoke from the packet he’d found in Max’s belongings when he’d lain on Max’s bed staring up at the wire mesh beneath the bunk overhead earlier that morning. He couldn’t sleep thinking about it all — the memory of what’d happened, the way Forrest had struck Max kept playing over and over through his thoughts. He lit the cigarette with a match, then gulped in a great lungful of smoke. He coughed and hacked, his eyes watering.
“You gotta take it slower than that the first time you have a drag,” offered Devon as he sat beside Harry on the timber slat floor.
Harry coughed again and offered a quick nod. “Thanks.”
“Can I bum a ciggie?”
Harry handed Devon a cigarette, making a mental note to pay Max back the next time he had a chance. Devon lit up and dragged coolly, blowing the smoke in a line straight over his head. “Sorry about what happened to Max.”
Harry didn’t respond. Instead he took another drag, this time more carefully, not letting the smoke into his lungs. He puffed it right back out again.
“Have you heard anything?”
“Nope. They’re not gonna tell me what’s going on, are they?” He hated this — not knowing, having no power to find out how Max was, whether he’d ever walk again or if he was coming back to the farm.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
Harry grunted in response, but he wasn’t convinced.
When Forrest brought Max home later that day, he carried the boy in his arms to the cottage with a stern expression on his broad face and sat in a chair beside the bed, hat in his hands. Harry stood at a distance, watching, as anger burned hot within.
“Are you comfortable, lad?” asked Forrest, massaging his hat with both enormous hands until it was flat.
Max sat propped up by pillows behind his back. His legs stretched out before him. “Fine.” He didn’t look at Forrest, but stared at his toes protruding in two lumps beneath his blanket.
“Well, that’s good. I could get you something to eat, if you like.”
Max glanced up at Forrest and sighed. “That might be nice.”
Forrest stood to his feet, still squeezing the hat. “Right. I’ll get you a nice plate of something and a glass of milk. That should help you feel better.”
Max didn’t contradict him, although Harry wanted to shout that Max would never be all right again. He’d cared for Forrest, thought of him as a father figure. And the principal had betrayed that trust. Harry wouldn’t trust the man again either. In fact, he hated him. Hated all of them — the masters, matrons, leaders, and officials — for what they’d done to Max, Mary, and everyone he’d ever loved.
Forrest strode from the cottage, and Harry sidled over to Max with his hands pushed deep into his shorts pockets. A lump formed in his throat at the pitiful frown on his friend’s normally gleeful face.
“You okay?”
Max met his gaze and offered a half smile. “Didn’t you hear? Right as rain in a jiffy.”
“Does it hurt?’
“Yep. It kills, but the doctor said once the swelling goes down, I’ll be up and about again in no time. At least they think so—of course they don’t really know. It’s a bruised spine, apparently. They kept saying they want me to stay positive.”
Harry rubbed both hands over his face, willing the lump in his throat to dissipate. He didn’t trust his voice with the pain of it tweaking at his emotions.
