Bridge of Clay(127)

See, when Clay told us there was one more thing to do, and that Tommy should get the turpentine, but no matches, we all walked silently out. We walked to The Surrounds.

We stood with the household monuments: Their distance and downtroddenness.

We walked to the mattress and stayed with him, and said nothing of the plastic sheet; no, all we did was stand, as the lighter came out of his pocket. In the other he still had the peg.

We stood till Tommy doused it, and the flame stood straightly upwards. Clay crouched down with the lighter, and first the bed resisted, but soon came roaring on. That sound, the sound of surf.

The field lit up.

    The five of us stood.

Five boys and a burning mattress.



* * *



—

When we went back inside, The Surrounds remained.

There hadn’t been close to a westerly.

He’d go alone to Central Station.

He hugged each of us warmly, and separate.

After Tommy he finished with me—and both of us told him to wait, at different moments—and me, I lifted the piano lid, and reached through the dress for its button. The books, I could tell, should wait.

He held it, the button from Vienna.

She was back in the grip of decision.

It was worn but pristine in his palm.



* * *



—

As for Tommy, it was close to ten minutes after, when the rest of us stood on the porch, and watched Clay walk away, and he did something utterly crazy: He trusted Rory to look after Hector.

“Here,” he said quickly, “hold him.”

For both Rory and Hector there was shock, and not a small amount of distrust. As they eyed each other closely, Tommy raced in through the house, and soon came running back round.



* * *



—

We stood and we looked at Clay.

And Tommy was running down after him.

“Clay!” he screamed. “Hey, Clay!”

And of course he was taking Achilles—and the mule, amazingly, was running. He was running! You could hear the hollowing hoofbeats, as the boy ran him down the street; and Clay had turned to meet them, and looked at the boy and the beast.

There wasn’t even a moment.

Not a second of hesitation.

It was how it was meant to be, and his hand came out for the reins.

    “Thanks, Tommy.”

It was quiet but all of us heard, and he turned and he walked and took him, as full morning had come to hit Archer Street—and we all went downwards to Tommy. We watched as they left us behind.

In there, out in the suburbs-world, a boy walked the streets with a mule. They set out for a bridge in Silver, and took the darkest waters with them.





Once—and I write this at least ALMOST for the last few times—in the tide of Dunbar past, there was a woman who told us she would die, and the world ended that night, in that kitchen. There were boys on the floor, they were burning; and the sun came up the next morning.

All of us woke up early.

Our dreams were like flight, like turbulence.

By six o’clock, even Henry and Rory were mostly awake; our notorious sleeper-inners.

It was March, and awash with leftovers from summer, and we stood together, in the hallway—skinny arms and anchored shoulders. We stood but we were stuck there. We wondered what to do.

Our dad came out and tried; a hand on each of our necks.

An attempt at some sort of comfort.

The problem was, when he walked away, we saw him take hold of the curtains, and one hand on the piano; he hung on, his body was shaking. The sun was warm and wavy, and we were quiet in the hall, behind him.

He assured us he was okay.

When he turned and came to face us, though, his aqua eyes were lightless.



* * *



—

As for us:

Henry, Clay, and I were in singlets and old shorts.

Rory and Tommy wore just underwear.

    It was what they’d gone to sleep in.

All of us tightened our jaws.

The hallway was full of tiredness, of boyish legs and shins. All outside their bedroom—strung toward the kitchen.



* * *



—

When she came out, she was dressed for work, in jeans and a dark blue shirt. The buttons were slits of metal. Her hair was braided down the back; she looked ready to go out riding or something, and cautiously, we watched her—and Penelope couldn’t help it.

She was blond and braidwork, beaming.

“What’s got into you lot?” she asked. “No one died, did they?”

And that was what eventually did it: She laughed but Tommy cried, and she crouched down close and held him—and then came all the rest of us, in singlets, shorts and falling.

“Too much?” she asked, and she knew it was, from being smeared by all those bodies.

She felt the clench of boys’ arms.

Our dad looked helplessly on.





So there she was.

Our mother.

All those years ago:

In the hallway, in the morning.

And here was Clay, in afternoon, in a hallway of his own, or as he preferred it himself, a corridor.

The corridor of strapping eucalypts.