Geoffrey Cousins - The Butcherbird

Her half-stifled, nervous laugh came again. ‘Yes. He is. Most people don’t realise that. They think he’s clever and knowledgeable, but they don’t see the breadth and the depth.’ She paused. ‘But he’s also frail. Very frail. That’s another thing you can’t see. He looks and talks strength and power, but it’s all show. He’s a weak, frail old man and this thing he’s doing for you is going to kill him. You mustn’t let him go back into the courtroom.

He’s planning to, I know he is. It’s all running through his body again like it used to. The doctors said it would kill him if he continued, and they’re right for once.’

The words had been rushing out as if she wanted to be rid of them, to expel them before they contaminated her body, but now she stopped for a moment and looked straight at Jack, almost challenging him. ‘I wanted you to know.’

Jack saw her mouth quiver as the words struck him and he reached out to hold her hand firmly, and to keep holding it. ‘I’m not sure I understand, Mrs Stimson. Is he ill? I thought he gave up appearing in court because he was bored with it.’

She withdrew her hand and sat, drawn inwards now, with arms folded tightly as if to warm herself. ‘That’s what everyone’s meant to think. But it’s his heart. They say it’s hereditary, or that diet or exercise or fish oil or some such will fix it. But it can’t be mended. It’s split in half by something that happened a long time ago. Instead of healing, the split’s just widening.’

Jack felt he was struggling for air in the enclosed space and he lowered his window a crack. ‘He told me about your son.’

He could see she was shocked as her head jerked up from the floor and she grasped the door handle. ‘Did he? He never talks about it to anyone, not even me. I sit with my quilts, he sits with his wood. We lie awake in the night, but we don’t talk. It’s not how we started. He’s very funny, you know, when he wants to be; he could always make me laugh. But he doesn’t want to anymore.’

They sat, not talking, looking straight ahead as the mist of their breath gradually cleared from the windscreen. Finally Jack spoke. ‘I’m not sure what you want of me. He seems completely wrapped up in pursuing these matters.

I think he’s more committed to nailing the hides of any wrongdoers on the courthouse door than I am. I don’t know if I could stop him, even if I wanted to.’ And then he turned to her. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure I want to.’

She smiled resignedly, a smile of knowing defeat, a practised smile. ‘I know. It’s stupid of me. I’m a silly old woman. I shouldn’t have spoken.’ But then she added determinedly, ‘If someone else could handle the court work. He gets very emotional in court. No one knows. It’s all inside-and that’s where the damage is.’

She opened the car door and Jack hurried around to help her out. ‘I’ll take you back to the house.’

She shook her head. ‘No, I’m fine. I’ll just say I went for a walk. I do that often. Thank you.’ She had already turned to go when she spoke again, softly. ‘You must be a fine man, Mr Beaumont. Good luck.’

He watched as she disappeared into the shadows. She seemed incredibly brave to him, as if to venture into a suburban street outside her own home on a quiet Sunday night required courage. Yet he knew that surviving the life she was reduced to required endurance he mightn’t have.

He waited until she must have reached the house and then drove slowly past. There were no lights in the studio and only one lighted, curtained window in the main house. Were they talking as they prepared for bed? Was he already lying there, reading? Did he ask, politely, ‘Did you have a pleasant walk?’ Did she reply, politely, ‘Yes, thank you.’ Would they lie awake, not speaking, in the dark, each listening to the breathing of the other?

The Honey Bear lay at anchor where no boat was supposed to be anchored. Immediately off the bow was the impressive sweep of the Woolloomooloo Wharf, the world’s longest wharf building, once a great wooden structure where the trade ships disgorged their cargo, now a great wooden structure where tourists and arrivistes engorged themselves. Above the restaurants lining the quay, apartment dwellers peered out at the diners below or at the aging remnants of the Royal Australian Navy on the east side. At the harbour end of the old building, a lump of concrete had been moulded into the approximate profile of the wharf and here, in apartments large enough for the Honey Bear to undergo its annual refit, celebrities of one kind or another-namely, persons who had spent the large part of their lives endeavouring to be known-crouched behind elaborate security measures pretending they wished to be known no longer.

It was the presence of both these elements, the Australian Navy and the celebrities, that rendered the proximity of the Honey Bear illegal. Boats were not permitted to anchor within view of either. For the navy, security was said to be the issue. However unlikely it might seem that the Honey Bear would launch a broadside of any projectile other than champagne corks, the navy was taking no chances. As for the celebrities, while they sympathised with, and indeed encouraged, the propulsion of champagne corks, they preferred to gaze out at nothing, rather than other people’s boats-particularly not other people’s boats that were larger and costlier than their own. It was sufficient embarrassment that it was rumoured, while unproven, that one of their number owned no boat at all. The navy had already despatched a tender to order the intruder to retreat and had been informed that, as soon as repairs were made to an engine malfunction-something which should take no longer than a couple of hours-the boat would be on its way. The sailors so informed were well on their way to enjoying the fruits of a most friendly and profitable visit. And the celebrities were mildly pleased to see activity of any kind. It made a stimulating change from watching videos of old game shows in which they, and others they had known but risen above, once featured.

Mac sprawled on a teak lounge on the stern with a bloody mary on one side of his mainly bare torso and the great heaving mass of Harold Wilde on the other. As he watched the senator shovel handfuls of almond kernels into his gaping maw, he thought, ‘He doesn’t just represent all Australians, he eats for them.’ But the words that eased forth from the mouth tingling with the spicy beverage were more appropriate.

‘You love a bloody mary, Harold, don’t you?’

‘I do, Mac. I love a good bloody mary, and this is a great one.’ Hardly one, thought Mac. It was the third towering glass to disappear into the cavern. One crunch of the celery stick, three swallows, a nod to the waiter watching from the door, and the fourth would be on the way before the ice had shed two degrees. Mac caught the waiter’s eye and gestured with his head for him to absent himself. He had business to conduct before Harold slipped into a stupor, although he suspected a crate of vodka might be required to achieve that end.

‘And you love a good feed, Harold, don’t you? I like a bloke who loves a good feed.’

Harold Wilde gazed at Mac appreciatively. He couldn’t see the waiter any longer, which was disturbing, but he was on the Honey Bear, where everything was available at all times, so he was relatively relaxed. Waiters needed to know their business, which was to bring sustenance to honest, hardworking citizens and then clean up afterwards, just as he tried to help people in his capacity. And indeed, sometimes, to clean up afterwards. But to have a host like Mac, who understood the basic needs of man, who was more than a hardworking citizen, a veritable towering colossus of business, and the arts apparently (something Harold hadn’t known before), and a friend of the Prime Minister apparently (something Harold couldn’t forgive himself for not having known)-well to have a man like this still able to appreciate the small things, like food and drink-it was a blessing for society.