Выбрать главу

‘But a lot of it you were just making up as you went along,’ he said. ‘I remember how you told me you changed the plan about something, the route you took I think it was. And there were lots of things, like slamming the brakes on to catch the car behind: that was you going with your gut feelings.’

‘So you think I should live life from the gut, not from the head?’

He laughed. ‘Not when you put it like that. I guess there’s a place for both. I’ll tell you what it’s like. It’s like my music.’ Lee was brilliant, Grade 6 piano already, the best for his age in Wirrawee. ‘When I’m learning a piece, or when I’m playing, I’ve got to have my heart and my mind involved. My mind is thinking about technique and my heart is feeling the passion of the music. So I suppose it’s the same as life. You’ve got to have both.’

‘And you think I’m all head and no heart?’

‘No! Stop twisting what I’m saying. But remember the guy who lived here. His heart must have gradually dried up, till it was like a little dried apricot, and all he had left was his reason. I hope it was a big consolation to him.’

‘So you do think I’m all head and no heart! You think I’ll end up in this little hut, the Hermitess from Hell, no friends, no one to love me. Excuse me, I’m going down the garden to eat worms.’

‘No, I just think that for some things, for example liking someone, for example liking me, you’re being too careful and calculating. You should just go with the feelings.’

‘But my feelings are that I’m confused,’ I said miserably.

‘That’s probably because your feelings are being confused by your mind. Your feelings might be coming through loud and clear, but before they get to the surface your brain gets in the way and muddles them around.’

‘So I’m a sort of TV that’s been put too close to a computer? I’m getting interference with my picture?’ I wasn’t sure if I believed all this or if it was just Lee spinning a line. Guys will say anything.

‘Yes!’ Lee said. ‘The question is, what programme’s showing on the TV? A debate on the meaning of life, or a passionate love story?’

‘I know what you’d like it to be,’ I said. ‘A porno starring us.’

He grinned. ‘How can I say I love you for your mind, after everything I’ve just said? But I do.’

It was the first time he’d used the word love, and it sobered me, a bit. This relationship could easily get serious. The trouble was, I was avoiding mentioning Homer, and one reason Lee couldn’t understand me was because he didn’t understand about Homer – although he’d had a guess, the day before. I think he’d have been less confused if I’d been more honest with him. But I knew about Homer, and I was still confused. I sighed, and got up.

‘Come on cripple, let’s go and look at the hut.’

This was my third trip to the hut, so it was losing interest for me a little. But Lee poked around for quite a while. There was more light in there this time; it probably all depended on the time of day, but there was some filtered sunlight that relieved the darkness along the back wall. Lee went to the hut’s only window, a glassless square in the back wall. He put his head through it and had a look at the mint outside, then investigated the rotting window frame.

‘Beautifully made,’ he said. ‘Look at these joints. Wait, there’s some metal here.’

‘How do you mean?’ I came up beside him as he started wrestling with the window sill. I could see then what he meant – the sill was rotting through, and between the decayed splinters a dull black metal surface was visible. Suddenly Lee lifted the sill straight off. It was clearly made to come away, for underneath was a geometrically neat cavity, not much bigger than a shoe box. And fitting neatly into it was a grey metal cashbox, about shoebox size.

‘Wow!’ I was astonished and excited. ‘Unreal! It’s probably full of gold.’

Lee, eyes staring, lifted it out.

‘It’s pretty light,’ he said. ‘Too light for gold.’

The box was showing the early signs of rust, with some red lines starting to creep along it, but it was in good condition. It was unlocked, and opened easily. Craning over Lee’s arm, I saw nothing but papers and photographs. It was disappointing, although as I realised later gold wasn’t much use to us, living our guerilla life up in the mountains. Lee lifted out the papers and the photos. Underneath them was a small blue case, like a wallet, but made of stiffer material and fastened with a small gold clasp. He opened that, carefully. Inside, wrapped in tissue paper and resting on white linen cloth, was a brightly coloured short wide ribbon, attached to a heavy bronze medal.

‘Fantastic,’ I breathed. ‘He was a war hero.’

Lee took it out. On the front was a relief of a king – I’m not sure which one – and the words ‘He who would valiant be’. Lee turned it over. On the back was engraved: ‘Bertram Christie, for gallantry, Battle of Marana’, and a date which was too blurred to read. The ribbon was coloured red, yellow and blue. We handled it, felt it, wondered over it, then wrapped it back up carefully and replaced it in its box before turning our attention to the papers.

There were a few of these: a notebook, a letter or two, some newspaper clippings and a couple of official looking documents. There were three photographs: one of a stern looking young couple on their wedding day, one of the woman alone, standing in front of a bare wooden house, and one of the woman with a toddler. The woman was young, but looked sad; she had long dark hair and a slim smooth face. She might have been Spanish. I looked at the photos intently.

‘These must be the ones he murdered,’ I whispered.

‘Funny that he kept their photos if he murdered them,’ Lee said.

I looked at the face of the man in the wedding photo. He looked young, younger than the woman maybe. He gazed steadily at the camera, clear strong eyes and a firm clean-shaven chin. I could see nothing of the murderer in his face and nothing of the victim in his wife’s or child’s.

Lee started opening the documents. The first seemed to be a newspaper account of a sermon. I only read the first paragraph. The sermon was based on a verse from the Bible, ‘A fool’s mouth is his ruin, and his lips are a snare to himself’. It looked long and boring, so I didn’t read any more. The other newspaper clipping was a short article that was headlined ‘Victims of Mt Tumbler Tragedy Laid to Rest’. It read:

A small group of mourners were in attendance at the Mt Tumbler Church of England on Monday last, where Revd Horace Green conducted a service for Burial of the Dead. Laid to rest were Imogen Mary Christie, of Mt Tumbler, and her infant child Alfred Bertram Christie, aged three.

The Christie family were not well known, being newly arrived, living a goodly distance from town, and being apparently of reclusive disposition, but the tragedy has aroused considerable sentiment in the district, which was touched on most feelingly by Revd Green in his address, which had for its text ‘Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live and is full of misery; he cometh up and is cut down like a flower’.

The deceased were then interred in the Mt Tumbler cemetery.

A public meeting will be held in the Mt Tumbler School of Arts on Monday next, under the chairmanship of Mr Donald McDonald, JP, to canvass again the possibility of obtaining the services of a medical practitioner for the Mt Tumbler district. The Christie tragedy has led to fresh agitation for the provision of medical services for the area.

An inquest into the deaths of Mrs Christie and her child will take place at the next visit of the magistrate to the district, on April 15. In the meantime Constable Whykes has cautioned against idle tongues making loose speculation upon the facts of the case; a sentiment most earnestly shared by this correspondent.

That was all. I read it over Lee’s shoulder. ‘It seems to raise more questions than it answers,’ I said.