sexual reticence and innocence, and although we’d exchanged inadequate information on human coupling, and occasionally told each other dirty jokes, girls and women were an almost total mystery, whom Mike in particular contemplated with reverence. So to me, and no doubt to Mike, the red-haired picker in her hand-me-down dress and faded linen sun hat was a nymph of the glades. To think of her being Mike’s girl pierced me with pleasurable envy; but I told myself that it was Mike who deserved her. He had the daring to woo her; I didn’t.
My amusement had been caused by the fact that he thought I hadn’t been aware of his feeling, simply because he’d never said anything. He’d imagined I was unaware of his secret life.
But I knew about it. I’d caught glimpses of it, but had been tactful enough not to mention it to him. He would disappear at times, particularly in the early evenings, making it plain he wanted to get away on his own. Left to my own devices, I’d gone walking about the property; and one evening, venturing past the pickers’ huts, I’d seen an extraordinary domestic picture. In one of the glassless windows, a family was framed in kerosene lamplight, sitting around their table over a meal: a middle-aged man and woman, the red-haired girl (plainly their daughter, since the woman had similar red hair), two small boys, and Mike. He was laughing and talking with them easily, gesturing with one hand, a cup of tea in the other. They were all smiling at him, and the parents had pleasant, kindly faces. The young squire among his tenants, I thought. I’d reached the age of such silly witticisms; and as I’ve said, I envied him.
I was also awed. He was trespassing into one of John Langford’s most seriously forbidden zones. What if his father found out? I put this question to him now.
He won’t find out, Mike said. To hell with him if he does. Those pickers are good people; and they’ve got so bloody little, Ray. Dad says they thieve things; but the Maguires would never do that. I’ve started taking them eggs and vegetables that Mum lets me have.
Wouldn’t your mother tell your father? I asked.
No, he said. She won’t tell him. Only Luke Goddard might tell him.
Luke Goddard was a hermit. He had lived for years, with John Langford’s permission, in a dilapidated shack on the boundary of the property, not far from the pickers’ huts. No one knew what he had been or where he’d originally come from. He was a tall old man with a mane of white hair and deep-sunk, pale eyes whose stare was both shocked and shocking; I for one couldn’t meet it. He seemed always to be walking about, head bent, dressed in a Tasmanian bluey: the dark pea jacket worn by bush workers.
There used to be many such hermits in the country, and legends were invented giving them illustrious or tragic origins. Luke Goddard was variously said to have been a wealthy farmer who’d been ruined; an ex-sailor; a jilted lover; the disgraced son of an English nobleman. But no one really knew, since he seldom spoke, except in monosyllables, and ignored most greetings. Mike and I had seen him in conversation with the pickers, but old Goddard barely spoke to members of the Langford family—despite the fact that he sometimes wandered across the property. For some reason, John Langford tolerated him; even seemed to be amused by him. Mike and I would laugh at him as he went by when we were younger, and he would sometimes turn on us, waving his fist and shouting words that we couldn’t understand, making us afraid of him.
Luke Goddard? Why would Luke Goddard tell him? I asked. That’s crazy. He never talks to anyone. He wouldn’t talk to your father. Even if he did, your father wouldn’t listen to him.
Wouldn’t he? Mike’s tone was bitter. He’d sooner listen to Luke Goddard than me, he said.
The next night, we lay silent for a time. A high wind, an early warning of autumn, had come up outside, mourning through Clare’s
My amusement had been caused by the fact that he thought I hadn’t been aware of his feeling, simply because he’d never said anything. He’d imagined I was unaware of his secret life.
But I knew about it. I’d caught glimpses of it, but had been tactful enough not to mention it to him. He would disappear at times, particularly in the early evenings, making it plain he wanted to get away on his own. Left to my own devices, I’d gone walking about the property; and one evening, venturing past the pickers’ huts, I’d seen an extraordinary domestic picture. In one of the glassless windows, a family was framed in kerosene lamplight, sitting around their table over a meal: a middle-aged man and woman, the red-haired girl (plainly their daughter, since the woman had similar red hair), two small boys, and Mike. He was laughing and talking with them easily, gesturing with one hand, a cup of tea in the other. They were all smiling at him, and the parents had pleasant, kindly faces. The young squire among his tenants, I thought. I’d reached the age of such silly witticisms; and as I’ve said, I envied him.
I was also awed. He was trespassing into one of John Langford’s most seriously forbidden zones. What if his father found out? I put this question to him now.
He won’t find out, Mike said. To hell with him if he does. Those pickers are good people; and they’ve got so bloody little, Ray. Dad says they thieve things; but the Maguires would never do that. I’ve started taking them eggs and vegetables that Mum lets me have.
Wouldn’t your mother tell your father? I asked.
No, he said. She won’t tell him. Only Luke Goddard might tell him.
Luke Goddard was a hermit. He had lived for years, with John Langford’s permission, in a dilapidated shack on the boundary of the property, not far from the pickers’ huts. No one knew what he had been or where he’d originally come from. He was a tall old man with a mane of white hair and deep-sunk, pale eyes whose stare was both shocked and shocking; I for one couldn’t meet it. He seemed always to be walking about, head bent, dressed in a Tasmanian bluey: the dark pea jacket worn by bush workers.
There used to be many such hermits in the country, and legends were invented giving them illustrious or tragic origins. Luke Goddard was variously said to have been a wealthy farmer who’d been ruined; an ex-sailor; a jilted lover; the disgraced son of an English nobleman. But no one really knew, since he seldom spoke, except in monosyllables, and ignored most greetings. Mike and I had seen him in conversation with the pickers, but old Goddard barely spoke to members of the Langford family—despite the fact that he sometimes wandered across the property. For some reason, John Langford tolerated him; even seemed to be amused by him. Mike and I would laugh at him as he went by when we were younger, and he would sometimes turn on us, waving his fist and shouting words that we couldn’t understand, making us afraid of him.
Luke Goddard? Why would Luke Goddard tell him? I asked. That’s crazy. He never talks to anyone. He wouldn’t talk to your father. Even if he did, your father wouldn’t listen to him.
Wouldn’t he? Mike’s tone was bitter. He’d sooner listen to Luke Goddard than me, he said.
The next night, we lay silent for a time. A high wind, an early warning of autumn, had come up outside, mourning through Clare’s
Similar Books
