Review of Australian Fiction, Volume 10, Issue 1 Page 3

  It was easier to talk about Roger.

  ‘Did you always like antiques?’ she said.

  ‘No.’ He’d hesitated, working his mouth as if it held a toffee. ‘That came later.’

  The whiskey before dinner, the wine, the brandy; there was a crowded tray of used glasses in the kitchen. Maureen’s balance seemed to be deserting her a little, even while sitting. She could see that Roger, who’d had much more, was feeling it, too.

  ‘I ran a factory, once,’ he said, looking almost ready to giggle, his eyes crinkling at the edges. ‘An unlikely candidate, I suppose you’re thinking.’

  She was.

  ‘Wasn’t exactly a pickle factory, Maureen,’ he said, with a smile. ‘It was in the days when my father was still trying to badger me into a career in engineering. Well, this was engineering of sorts. It was a glass factory. You know, shop fittings and so forth. We made amazing things: room dividers, pool fences, balconies. Once, we made a fabulous glass spa with sides like huge, green waves. All very high end. Beautiful, in its own way, but hardly Lalique.’

  Roger was smoothing his hair with the flat of his hand, remembering. ‘I enjoyed running the place, to tell you the truth. It was very successful. For a while, at least. Kept my father off my back.’

  ‘What made you leave it?’ she said. ‘Fell in love with antique dealing, I suppose.’ How light her heart felt when she said that. How romantic it was to be here, snowed in with this man. When she thought back over the conversation, and she did for the rest of her life, she remembered the pause in his story at that point, how he looked over to the vase in the way an actor might look into the wings for a prompt.

  ‘I didn’t know much about antiques, except what I’d picked up from my mother,’ he said. ‘We had that same love of craftsmanship. There’s a kind of order in it, I guess.’

  A kind of order. She would think about this for a long time afterwards.

  ‘So why did you all leave South Africa?’ she said. ‘Was it the political scene?’ She saw his eyes narrow, the way they did at the shop when he’d looked at her dessert plates for that one, brief moment.

  ‘We didn’t all leave,’ he said. ‘I was the only one who left. It was nothing to do with politics. That stuff didn’t… affect us much.’ His shoulders rose in a minute shrug. ‘My father made me leave.’ Roger drained the last of his brandy as if he might go. Remembering that he was trapped, at least until morning, he made an elaborate show of replacing his glass on its linen coaster.

  ‘Your father was pretty authoritarian.’ The brandy was making her blunt.

  ‘He was.’ Roger grimaced. ‘But in this case he was right. When I got to England, I found the glass business was a closed shop, so that was out. I went into antiques because it was the only other thing I knew. Or half knew.’

  ‘But why leave South Africa? You said the glass place was successful.’

  ‘It was. But something happened.’

  Maureen felt a slow wave of discomfort wash across the room towards her.

  ‘Something happened and I had to leave,’ he said. He poured himself another brandy from the bottle beside him, and looked straight at her.

  And there it was: that same hard stare. The stare that said that if there’s going to be a future to all this, Maureen, with you coming to dinner in my house, and maybe more; with you telling me about the drip, drip of that tap as the life you expected washed into something more colourless, then you need to know this.

  The drink had made him daring.

  ‘I see,’ she said. She would not have asked any more. She often thought about that.

  And she knew what was expected of her. ‘Oh, how dreadful,’ she could say. ‘It’s a harsh place, South Africa, isn’t it?’ Something like that, something bland and final to speak out loud so that together they could watch the words lift in the thickened air, vanish like smoke. Order returned.

  ‘I got rid of someone,’ he said.

  She would remember, too, the way her mind, soft at the edges from the brandy that she would never drink again, spun through the possible meanings of ‘got rid’ like a roulette wheel. Round and round, a dull clicking in her head.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said, hot blood coursing inside her ears.

  He saw she was waiting. ‘One of the workers at the factory. Little squat fellow. Took to calling himself the shop steward. Had an opinion on every damn thing. He had this irritating way of coming up too close, stepping into your personal space.’ Roger’s hand moved up and down, miming the intrusion. ‘Sometimes, when he was talking, I could feel his breath on my neck. I hated that. I should never have given him a job, but he was the second cousin or something of one of our suppliers. The usual carry-on: connections and favours. Anyway, about a year in, this guy started causing a lot of trouble in the place. It’d been good ’til then. Everyone was happy enough.’

  Roger turned back towards the fire. ‘It wasn’t just me invested in that business. There were local businessmen involved—my father’s mates, naturally. You’ve no idea of the complications.’ His voice trailed off. ‘Three years after I gave that man a job, he’d all but ruined me. It was just incredible. People were giving me grief night and day. We were going broke, that’s the truth of it. And my father got wind of it. He said he was coming back to sort out my mess.’ Roger shook his head. ‘You know, he had a way of saying, “I’m pretty disappointed,” that you could hardly believe.’

  Maureen looked over at the peonies, standing with their dark-lipped mouths.

  ‘You know, it’s a funny thing,’ he said. ‘People can smell trouble. Nobody wants to deal with a business that’s got problem staff. They run a mile.’ He was looking deep into the flames. ‘He was winning, in the end, and he knew it. The orders were dropping off. It was pure sabotage. Even some of the older guys—been with me for years—were starting to take an interest in their goddamn rights. Everything was going to come tumbling down.’

  ‘So you got rid of him,’ she said.

  ‘I knew I had to do something but I didn’t have a plan,’ he said. ‘I suppose you could say fate took over. You know how that can happen.’

  ‘Tell me,’ she said.

  He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago. God, it was, it was forty years ago. Everything’s… well, it’s different now. It’s forgotten. Okay. Forgotten.’ He took a noisy gulp of brandy.

  ‘I really need to know, Roger,’ she said, and she felt as if she could wait forever, her feet planted in the oatmeal carpet. Wait for the fire to die out, the ice to set hard in the pipes, for the snow, the dreadful, blanketing snow, to bury them here. He would tell her tonight.

  He stood up. For one ghastly moment she thought that he might attack her. She felt herself brace in the chair, knew she was utterly defenceless. But he moved closer to the fire, put one hand on the high, stone mantelpiece.

  ‘He’d broken his arm.’ Roger paused, put a hand to his forehead. ‘God, I can’t remember his name. Imagine that.’ He shook his head. ‘Anyway, this guy, he’d slipped on a bit of machine oil. A bad break. He couldn’t do any work. Useless. Even more useless than he normally was. But he still kept mouthing off, sneaking around the workers, telling them to demand this, demand that. There was a strike planned. A strike!’ He looked back at Maureen as if this news might be astonishing.

  ‘I knew that would mean the end of the business,’ he said. ‘I just couldn’t bear it, the thought of my father getting involved. All of it would be so… public. I knew he wouldn’t spare me in any way.’

  She watched his long fingers gripping the edge of the mantle-shelf as if he meant to pull it towards him like a drawer.

  ‘I was out walking one day,’ he said. ‘I used to walk in the bush quite a bit. Birds. I used to photograph birds. So beautiful, some of their feathers. Fantastic colours and patterns. You couldn’t believe how perfect, Maureen. I’ve still got some at home. I can show you.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, I knew the land around there very well. My fathe
r had owned it for years. It was private land. Strictly private.’

  The fire spat a tiny ember onto the tiles. ‘Next thing I look up and there he is,’ he said. ‘On our land. It was the sling I saw first, it was so brightly coloured. And when he saw me, he didn’t turn away, he just walked right up to me as if he meant to say something, but he didn’t speak, he just stood there, really close, staring. I said, ‘What are you doing on my property?’ and he just smiled and said, ‘Walking, just like you.’ And then he made to push past me on the track. I had a tripod. It was leaning against a tree on the other side of me, and…’ He looked at Maureen.

  ‘And you hit him.’ she said. ‘You hit him with the tripod, didn’t you, Roger?’ And a word was jangling in her mind, crazy as a funhouse. Clobbered. You clobbered him. That’s what you did. That’s what it means.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘it was done before I knew it. It was just… everything came at once and my hand went round the tripod and there he was, up so close, and his damn, filthy breath on my neck.’ Roger’s mouth was working again. ‘I didn’t set out to kill him.’

  ‘But you did kill him.’

  They stared at each other.

  ‘What did you do then?’ she said. ‘After you killed that man.’ She was horror-struck by a rising need to laugh. Loud, insane laughter. How preposterous this was. Here, in the drawing room, in the linen union chairs, talking of murder. The murderer leaning on the mantelpiece, his handsome face explaining it all. Unimaginable.

  ‘You know, it’s what the Greeks used to do,’ he said. There was a small note of

  defiance in his voice.

  ‘Greeks?’ She thought she’d misheard.

  ‘The Ancient Greeks. Driving out troublemakers. Pushing them into exile. Sometimes… yes, sometimes killing them, for the greater good.’ His voice sounded thinner, higher. ‘That’s what they did. To restore things. That’s… what they did.’

  ‘What did you do after you killed that man?’ she said.

  Roger dropped his hand from the mantelpiece, stretched both arms like a man who’d driven a long way. ‘When I was a kid, I played there all the time. And my sister. We found a couple of deep hollows in the ground. We never did find out what they were, exactly. Not caves. Not man-made, I think. They were almost like sink-holes. Very well camouflaged. We used to hide in them. Terrifying on your own. They seemed huge to us then.’

  He turned to her now, his face a plain, tight mask. A finely-wrought shell of a face. ‘I knew I was close to one of the holes that day,’ he said. ‘So I just dragged him down the hill and pushed him in. It was astonishingly simple, if you must know. They didn’t find it for years. My sister rang to tell me. She’d seen something in the paper. Nothing else ever emerged. My father could be very… proficient when things needed sorting. And that’s all I can tell you, Maureen. Truly. That’s all there is. It was a long time ago. A million miles from here. It was just something that happened.’

  She stood up. She didn’t feel afraid, which surprised her. She stepped towards him, pushed the brass guard against the mouth of the fireplace with a metallic scrape, turned for the door.

  ‘I’m going to bed now,’ she said, her hand on the doorknob. She felt the colder air from the hall wind around her legs like a needy cat. ‘I want you to leave at first light. There’s a garden spade on the porch. You can dig your way out if necessary.’

  Roger sat down, pushed his elegant hands around the curve of the armrests. He did not raise his head.

  ‘We won’t be seeing each other again,’ she said. She’d never spoken to anyone in such an icy, calm voice.

  He nodded slowly, as if he were only just taking everything in.

  She turned to go.

  ‘Maureen,’ he said, in a quiet voice. She was sure he was going to say that he was sorry; say how much he regretted all this.

  ‘What is it?’ she said.

  He looked straight at her, and in a low, chivalrous voice, he said, ‘Would it be too much to ask, do you think, if I took back the vase?’

  In her bedroom, she turned the key. She felt the metal components tumble into place, heard the satisfying click. The silk tassel that dangled from the key swung against the glossy door. Gerald had been a great man for locks. His father had been a locksmith. It wasn’t that they were afraid, they were just careful people. Ready.

  She took the mohair rug from the upholstered chair in the corner. She lay down, fully clothed, on the thick bedspread, smoothed the lilac checks across her body. She kept her eyes open, watching the snow-lit square of window, waiting for morning.

  Like what you’ve just read?

  Why Not Subscribe Now?

  Review of Australian Fiction pays 50% of net price direct to the authors

  By supporting Review of Australian Fiction you are suppporting Australian authors