Black Wattle Creek (Charlie Berlin #2)(39)
‘I’m sorry, Peter, you’re right. Thank you for pointing it out.’
As he stirred the porridge Berlin was reminded of mixing concrete to set the stumps for the darkroom. It looked just as appetising.
Peter was hunched over the encyclopaedia, his legs tucked under him on the kitchen chair. He laughed. ‘That’s funny, the “o” has dots over it.’
Berlin slid the pot off the gas ring before looking over the boy’s shoulder. That’s a different name, isn’t it? R?ntgen?’
Peter ran his finger down the page, carefully reading the words out loud. ‘Wilhelm Conrad R?ntgen. But it says in English it gets spelled Roentgen.’ He picked up the disk. ‘That’s the right name, it’s spelled the same. He’s a German, he must have been a Nazi.’
Berlin put the pot of porridge back on the flame. ‘What else does it say?’
‘There are a lot of big words here I don’t understand. But he won the Noble Prize. Is that good?’
‘Nobel,’ Rebecca said from the doorway. ‘In 1901, for physics, the first one ever awarded for physics in fact. And it is good.’
Berlin stopped stirring. ‘You already knew who he was?’
‘Of course. I grew up in Germany until I was ten, remember? And those two dots over the “o” are called an umlaut, Peter.’ Berlin looked over at his son. ‘Maybe we should thank your mum for giving us such a great helping hand.’
‘No need to get shirty, Mr Berlin, I just thought you two boys needed to improve your research skills. My parents spent a lot of money on that encyclopaedia and it’s good to see it getting some use. Now, can you put that book back in the living room with the others, Peter, and please be careful with it. If your father has that porridge ready, you and your sister can have breakfast while I cut your lunches.’
‘Anything else you want to tell me about Mr Roentgen, Rebecca? Perhaps why he has his name on this disk, for instance?’
‘Sorry, Charlie, I can’t help you there. He discovered X-rays, I know that. Now, has anyone seen the breadknife?’
TWENTY-SIX
Berlin used the walk to school to have a word with Peter about fireworks and safety. He tried to keep it low-key so as not to frighten Sarah too much, but when you left out the blindings, deafness and missing fingers there wasn’t a lot to say. He decided to try again when he had the boy to himself. Guy Fawkes Night, November fifth, was still several weeks off in any case.
Bonfire Night or Cracker Night were names that made more sense to Berlin. On an Australian spring evening, standing round a flaming bonfire, who cared about a bloke trying to blow up the British Houses of Parliament three hundred-odd years back? Still, it was fun for the kids and one way of getting rid of household junk. Bonfire piles were springing up on any vacant bit of land, and pocket money usually spent on lollies or comics was being hoarded to buy fireworks for the big night.
Berlin remembered how once, when they were kids, he and Billy had been sent to the barber’s straight after school by their grandmother for a quick short back and sides. The two boys had a made a small fortune selling their turns in the barber’s chair to men anxious to get shorn and to the pub before closing. They collected mostly pennies and trey-bits, but scored an unbelievable half-crown from a grinning man in a nice suit who said he was off to meet a pretty girl. Trimmed, shaved, powdered and smelling of bay rum and Brilliantine, he surreptitiously purchased a small packet from under the barbershop counter and winked at the youngsters as he left.
‘Frenchies,’ Billy had whispered in his brother’s ear and Charlie nodded, even though he had no idea what a Frenchie was. Barbershops, he later learned, were where men bought their condoms if they were nervous about the suspicious looks to be had from the older married women who usually served behind the counter in local chemists shops.
After waving the children goodbye at the school gate Berlin started back towards home, but instead of turning right he continued on towards the shopping centre. The door of the mobile chest X-ray van was open and there was no one waiting outside. He banged on the metal door.
‘Come on in if you’re good looking.’
He stepped up into the cramped space. Inside, a bored-looking man wearing a white dustcoat was sitting at a small desk, eating a bacon sandwich out of a grease-stained paper bag. A sign on the desk read ‘Radiographer in Charge’.
‘What can I do ya for, squire?’
The smell of the bacon sandwich was fighting hard to cover the odour of a body that could do with a decent application of soap and water. The bacon was winning, but only just. Berlin hoped his visit to the cramped caravan would be brief.
‘Sorry to interrupt your breakfast. The wife’s been on my back about getting this done and I’ve got some time to kill.’
‘Wants to see if you really do have a heart, does she? Good timing, though, we’re off at the end of the week to pastures new. Or bloody Brunswick.’ The radiographer slid a clipboard across the desk. ‘You fill in the paperwork while I finish this and then we’ll do the business. Need to have your suit jacket and waistcoat off, though.’
After filling out the forms Berlin was positioned against a large vertical platen in the middle of the van.
‘Not a lot of space in here, is there?’
‘Tell me about it. Now I want you to breathe in and hold your breath when I give you the word.’