Craig Sherborne - The Amateur Science of Love

I fell asleep eventually. Woke many times through the night but the earthquakes were enough of a distraction to have me count them until I dozed off again. I woke for the last time at 7am. Scintilla was well daylit by then. Seven is peak-hour for traffic in the country—cars and one-tonners going past at a rate of one every fifteen seconds.

I splashed my eyes with water from the park tap and set off for the Wheatman office. My gait was a hop-shuffle given the ankle but I hurried as best I could to avoid gossip: ‘What on earth is Colin Butcher up to, lame and head down like he’s trying to hide?’ The office opened officially at 8.30 but compositors were usually in before then. My intention was to slip by them, grab the Commodore’s spare keys from the front desk drawer, then sneak into my own backyard and retrieve the vehicle like a just thief.

Very proud of his heritage is Vigourman. He was waiting for me, new lamb-chop sideburns framing his face. The centenary of his family settling in Scintilla was a month away. What better way to commemorate the occasion than copying his sepia great-grandfather’s features?

The salt-and-pepper fuzz aged him. So did the sleepy redness in the gutters of his eyes. ‘I’ve hardly had a wink,’ he said, stirring black tea at the staff basin. ‘Half the night I’ve spent in consultation with police. Your ears must be burning.’

‘How so?’

‘Come with me.’ He indicated my desk would do for a serious discussion. Then changed his mind—it was too close to the compositors to be private. He brushed past me, dripping his tea, ignoring it splashing his shoes. He opened the storage room door and told me to sit on a pile of Wheatman back issues. He perched on the taller Gazette pile. He was his usual full-of-himself self, shoulders back, chest and stomach spinnakered, but his voice wasn’t normal. It was muted. He hardly parted his lips to let the words out. ‘You are aware of what Tilda did last night?’

I presumed he meant the bath-burning scene. A neighbour must have witnessed it after all and blabbed.

‘It was an experiment,’ I began explaining—but Vigourman was not referring to underwear.

Tilda had driven the Commodore to Watercook and threatened to kill Donna, burn her house down and let her and Ruth burn in it. She had splashed turpentine at the back door, set it alight and only the fact the house was brick and the door was a glass slider stopped the premises catching fire. She then rammed Donna’s car in the drive. There was a heap of damage to the Commodore’s front end.

Vigourman had insurance concerns given Tilda was not the authorised company driver. ‘All because you were tomcatting. Oh, this is very distasteful. Very distasteful indeed. This is deeply embarrassing to the Wheatman , to me, to Tilda, Mrs Wilkins, you. It reflects so poorly on you I am more than disappointed, son. More than disappointed. Your whole future in my employment is under review, I’m afraid.’ He sipped his tea but was too infuriated to swallow. He spat the mouthful back into the mug. ‘How could you do it to your poor wife? After what she’s been through, to do this to her goes directly to your character, or lack of it.’

I leant forward, my hand held up to request more details from him. ‘Is Donna all right? Ruth all right?’ Last on the list was Tilda.

‘Yes, yes,’ he replied irritably. ‘That’s something to be thankful for. I have, I think, convinced the Watercook police that this is a very private matter and no charges should be brought against Tilda to embarrass us further. Mrs Wilkins can try and force the issue but she will not necessarily find a sympathetic ear in the senior sergeant. None of us have much sympathy for her—her husband still warm in the ground and she’s off tempting you into tomcatting. This community embraced you as a Scintillan, Colin. I embraced you and gave you a start. And you do this to us.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Vigourman.’ I called him Hector normally but sitting up on his paper pile he had the distance of a magistrate. ‘I’m sorry for what has happened. But I have strong feelings for Donna. Very strong.’

‘Nonsense. You’ve given over to your urges instead of your decency.’ He shook his head as if I must be a halfwit not to recognise such obvious wisdom. He voice lowered to a confidential register. ‘We all have urges. If we live with the same woman for a number of years we get urges. But that doesn’t mean we go tomcatting. There are ways and means to satisfy yourself without fouling your own nest. You take a business trip to Melbourne. Do I have to spell it out? You take your urges to Melbourne. There are places you go to. There are ladies who are professionals. You take care of your urges that way and keep your home life intact.’

‘You’ve done that… professionals ?’

‘Did I say I had? I said no such thing. I’m simply telling you: there are ways and means.’ He took a sip of tea. ‘Tell you what I’m going to do. I’m willing to treat this escapade of yours as a one-off. You were temporarily bewitched by a loose female, someone who had lost her husband and was not in her right mind from grief. I am aware that sacking you also punishes your good wife. She needs a provider for a husband, not a jobless so-and-so.

‘Therefore, here’s what you do. I suggest you go to Tilda, get down on your hands and knees and beg to be taken back. You do the right thing by her and I’ll do the right thing by you. Poor woman’s up in hospital this minute, bawling her eyes out despite sedation. Dr Philpott fears the trauma of all this could kickstart her cancer. What a terrible, terrible thing to have on your conscience.

‘As for Mrs Wilkins—let’s never speak of her again. Do I make myself clear? These are new conditions to your employment. So, what’s it going to be? You can go to Watercook and be with that…that widow if you want. But if you do, I wipe my hands of you. And don’t think you’d find work in Watercook either. Not Watercook or anywhere the length and breadth of the Wimmera Plains. I will see to it that your name is mud. Understand?’

I am glad I never gave Vigourman the pleasure of replying, ‘I understand.’ Saying ‘I understand’ was the same as saying ‘You’re right, Mr Vigourman. It was all urges and nothing more. Not love. Not a shot at joy. Just the equivalent of professionals in Melbourne.’ He could threaten me all he liked but my feelings for Donna were greater than worries about being called mud could ever be. Greater than any job with a Commodore. Greater than a bad conscience. What’s conscience when you’d rather die than beg to a woman you no longer loved?

Donna was another story. Her I could beg to if needed.

I left Vigourman to his smug tea-sipping; turned my back on him, breathed my chest and stomach out so they made a spinnaker of their own. I limped from the storeroom without a word. Donna was my priority. I went to my desk and couldn’t care less if Vigourman eavesdropped. I was going to speak to her like a man speaks to his loved one. I dialled. Her phone was working again. She picked up immediately.

‘Donna, sweetheart. Are you all right? You fine?’

‘Physically, yes. But rattled. Extremely rattled.’

‘Sweetheart, don’t be rattled.’

‘Why not? I’ve never had someone say they want me dead. I thought she was going to do it, kill me. I held Ruth and I thought: How do we defend against this kind of hatred? Abuse over the phone is one thing, but to come to my home and stand at my door screaming she will kill us. Try to set us on fire. Ruth was so terrified. I have to keep her in my arms or she shakes.’