Digging to Australia by Lesley Glaister Page A

fortunately for the family name. My father. And then snuffed it. A consumptive. To my grandmother’s relief, I imagine. He wasn’t much fun by all accounts.’ The boy’s eyes glistened resentfully.
    I reached for the frying pan. When the sausages began to sizzle, a wonderful sweet fatty smell rose and spread, incongruous in the mustiness. ‘Sure you don’t want any?’ I asked.
    â€˜You’ve tempted me,’ he said, and I put another couple of sausages in the pan. I sat on a box and poked at them until they curled and split. I felt very grown up then, cooking for a man. The sausages were delicious eaten between clammy slices of bread. I licked my fingers and wiped my mouth on my sleeve, but noticed that he dabbed delicately at his own with a napkin. There was only one, in a silver ring. When he had finished he rolled it up and put it back in the ring, sausage fat and all.
    â€˜Not much as birthday parties go,’ he said. ‘Will you be having one this evening?’
    â€˜No,’ I said. I shivered.
    â€˜You’re cold,’ he observed. ‘If you care to look in that box you’ll find a rug. Wrap yourself up in it while you drink your tea.’ I stood up and opened the lid of the box and found a thick tartan rug inside, which I wrapped around myself, settling down once again on the box. The rug made me feel colder at first, the cold of the earth absorbed into its fibres, but gradually my own warmth crept into it and I began to feel sleepy.
    â€˜There was always a party, I remember,’ he said. He had closed his eyes. ‘With a conjurer, or a clown, and fifty or so children I’d never seen in my life before. Quite an ordeal.’
    â€˜Why?’ I asked. ‘I mean, why didn’t you know the children?’
    He didn’t answer. He rubbed his head and then ran his hands over his cheeks. I could hear the grating of his bristly skin against his palms.
    â€˜What’s your name?’ I asked.
    â€˜My name? Must I have a name?’
    â€˜Of course you must!’
    â€˜Well then, let’s say Johnny. Will that do?’
    â€˜Yes … I suppose so.’
    â€˜All your characters must have names.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜You said I must have a name. Why is that? No, let me guess. So you know what to call me. So you know how to think of me. So you know how to refer to me.’
    â€˜I suppose so.’
    â€˜But you won’t do that last thing. You won’t refer to me.’ He stated it as a fact, not a question that required an answer.
    â€˜Now, more about you. You are the one who has come to me. Do you want or need something from me?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜I think you are mistaken. You sought me out.’
    â€˜No … I didn’t know you were here.’
    â€˜Not consciously. But you did know.’
    â€˜I tried to go away, when I saw you … but you followed me out. You called me .’
    â€˜Only in obedience.’
    â€˜This is nonsense!’ I stood up.
    â€˜Sit down a minute longer,’ he said, and I did, but only because my legs were suddenly weak. He had splashed more whisky in our tea. ‘I’ve grown curious. You have aroused my curiosity. You don’t add up.’ He gazed at me with his clear eyes until my cheeks felt hot. ‘Are you really not afraid of me? Not just a mite afraid? Not a smidgin? Perhaps you need to be afraid. Is that it?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜And it really is your birthday?’
    â€˜Well …’
    â€˜Ah ha … a lie?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Well is it or isn’t it? Surely the answer to that is in the nature of an absolute. A question that can be answered with a simple yes or no.’
    â€˜I’ve always believed my birthday to be on a different day. Now I know the truth.’
    â€˜Ah ha. Result, methinks, confusion. Loss of sense of identity. Yes?’
    â€˜I suppose that’s what it is,’ I