To Name Those Lost Read online

  First published in 2014

  Copyright © Rohan Wilson 2014

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone: (61 2) 8425 0100

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.allenandunwin.com

  Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available from the National Library of Australia

  www.trove.nla.gov.au

  ISBN 978 1 74331 832 4

  eISBN 978 1 74343 556 4

  Cover and internal design by Lisa White

  Typeset by Bookhouse, Sydney

  Rohan Wilson leads the sensible life of a man who knew the peaks and troughs of youth too well and learned his lesson. He met his wife in Japan and counts his blessings for this good fortune. They have a son who loves games and books and the crusts off bread. They live together in Launceston, and are sometimes glad for it. Rohan holds a PhD from the University of Melbourne. This is his second book. He can be found on Twitter: @rohan_wilson

  CONTENTS

  THE LETTER

  THE SHED

  TWO SEEKERS

  LIFFEY VALLEY

  LONGFORD

  LAUNCESTON

  SOUTH OF LAUNCESTON

  TRENT STEWART'S PREMISES

  WILLIAM TOOSEY

  THE RAILWAY RATE

  THE RIOT

  RABBIT'S TAPROOM

  THE LANEWAY

  THE STAR OF THE NORTH HOTEL

  THE LANE BY THE HOTEL

  GEORGE FISHER, AGENT

  THE PARK

  JACK KETCH

  BATTEN STREET

  THE HOODED MAN

  THE QUEEN'S WHARF

  THE WEST TAMAR ROAD

  CHARLES STREET GENERAL CEMETERY

  THE LETTER

  HER HEAD HIT THE FLOORBOARDS, BOUNCED, and a fog of ash billowed, thrown so by the motion of her spade. She was slight of figure, slim with a quiet softly coloured face. She crashed and the spade rang and the thrown ash found volume then fell on her hair and her faded pinafore. Beside the kitchen’s great red-brick hearth Maria looked the size of a child. Her light hair slowly dulled to grey under the raining grit. She lay senseless.

  When William Toosey came into the kitchen he did not see his mother lying among the cinders. He had a hessian sack on his shoulder, which he placed on the table. One by one he removed half a dozen beer bottles from inside and lined them up. He looked about nervously. He’d scratched the labels off each bottle but by the caps you could tell where they’d come from. What he hoped was that she’d drink the beer and not ask. Stepping away from the table he saw his mother on the floor and gave a start. He smiled.

  I’ve brought somethin, he said.

  Ash drifted. His mother lay as before.

  Ma, he said.

  He crossed the floor and crouched near her. The coals crunched beneath his knees. Her eyes were closed, her mouth ajar.

  Ma, he said.

  He wasn’t smiling now. He tried to lift her and when he got around behind and pushed her upright she was as slack as a straw toy and fell forward at the waist and rolled.

  Ma. Stop it!

  He shook his mother by the shoulders. Her head lolled and she gave off a fine cloud of dust that he could taste on his tongue as he breathed. He eased her to the floor and stood. This was stupid. She was shamming. He looked around the kitchen, his fists balled by his sides, and an instant passed where he wanted to hit her. He nudged her with his boot.

  Get up for God’s sake, he said. There is beer for you.

  Then she coughed and winced.

  What’s the matter? he said.

  He brushed the ash from her cheeks. Her throat seemed to be pumping beneath her skin. She turned her head, heaved, and let forth a thick liquid over the floor. Her eyes fluttered open and for a brief time she gaped at the ceiling as if looking through it to the sky, the great blue above, but they closed again and she grew still. William wiped her cheek, her lips, with the sleeve of his shirt. He felt the heat from her brow. For a while he just knelt there. His mother wasn’t shamming. She was sick and she needed seeing to. He had to think about that. About what it meant. There was a doctor on Brisbane Street and he thought he might know the house, and that was all he could think of.

  He ran. The worn road led into town, flanked by homes of weatherboard and brick. Ahead only the inner streets of Launceston, a stretch of rooves studded with church steeples, the river winding through like a wide leather thread. The dawn sun perching beyond the water was already white with heat. He ran and his pulse thudded in his head. His boots hit the dirt with a puff of grit. A man in a tweed coat walked the road and turned, startled, as William shot by, and called, Ease down, for the love of God! William never even looked back.

  The town park filled acres of grassland skirted about by an iron balustrade and planted in a pageant of English willow and oak and pine that was wildly contrary to the sombre gums covering the hills above. He knew every inch of that park. The cubbies, hidey holes, blind switchbacks. The routes in, the routes out. All of it. But today, bundling through the gate with his breath firing in the hot dark of his chest, it seemed made new. He passed the ornate water fountain depicting naked cherubs at play in a pool and felt no cheer for the sight of it. The glass conservatory for the keeping of flowers gave his reflection differently, a huge-eyed boy, hair full of wind. He lowered his head and ran harder.

  At the far side of the park he spilled onto Brisbane Street and skidded on the dirt footpath as he changed direction. A gig rolled through the crossing, its lamps still lit from dawn, and he ran into the haze it made. With his eyes pinched and searching he studied the street, the neat white-limed houses for that which belonged to the doctor. Plum trees was all that he remembered: two of them in ceramic pots by the door. Yet many had fruit trees, many had brass plaques, the residences of barristers, of bankers and insurers. He ran along a road that was lined with tall stucco or stone places, sucking back the smokey air of morning and scanning every house he passed, and just at the corner as he saw the doctor’s house, the potted trees by the door weighted with blue summer plums, just as he felt that small relief, a pair of constables primly uniformed in black stepped from a side lane into the full sun and looked right at him.

  William Toosey!

  He stopped. They were crossing the road each dragging his dawn shadow for yards behind, the taller one waving off flies while resting his other hand upon the butt of his billyclub. William breathed hard. This man was called Beatty and the low sun in his eyes made him appear to smile. He’d drawn his long billyclub, black and gleaming like a greasy crowbar, and was tapping his thigh with it. William glanced up at the doctor’s house and clenched his jaw.

  Lovely mornin, the constable said. Just lovely.

  William kept his eyes on the doctor’s place.

  Wouldn’t you say so, William?

  Piss off.

  Beatty prodded his mate in the chest with the point of his club. This other fellow was young and pale in his freshly pressed uniform. Beatty prodded him and then gestured at William.

  Not one of your more helpful sorts, this one, he
said to the fellow.

  No, sir. Looks a rough one, sir.

  Rough? Jesus, man. He’s a lad of twelve. You can handle a lad of twelve, can’t you, Webster?

  Yes, sir. I expect so.

  You expect so. Well, God help us.

  William looked from one to the other. He looked at the doctor’s house.

  So, Beatty said. How’s about this brewery then. Terrible business.

  William backed away.

  Don’t move. I aint said you could move.

  William paused. He was breathing even harder. Mr Beatty, he said. Me ma is sick.

  The constable winced in disgust. What a load of mullock, he said.

  She fell down. I was goin in there for the doctor.

  But Beatty wasn’t listening. Where’s Oran Brown? he said.

  Eh?

  Beatty tucked his stick in his armpit. They are shy quite a few cases, he said. Down at the brewery. As you already know.

  Mr Beatty, somethin is wrong with her. She needs a doctor. That’s God’s truth.

  Beatty was grinning but he grew sober as he leaned towards the boy. I have Lally Darby under charge for it, he said.

  She never went near the place, William said.

  Young Lally is as guilty as a Jew and that is a fact.

  It’s a slanderous lie. She don’t even drink.

  Beatty grinned. He turned to his mate. Proper little solicitor, this one.

  Yes, sir.

  Thin as a lawyer’s promise too, Beatty said. Don’t your ma feed you?

  Get naffed, William said and he reached for the gate. But Beatty was not about to have this. He laid his club upon the point of William’s throat and they stood for a time thus strangely counterposed, each staring hard at the other, before William let his hand fall. Beatty shook his head in mock sadness.

  Weren’t just Lally, he said. She had Oran Brown with her.

  Mr Beatty, I have to have the doctor.

  Where is he? Where’s young Oran?

  She needs help.

  Webster, draw your stick, Beatty said.

  This Webster hesitated, his fingers hovering over the handle. He looked at Beatty. He raised it from the holder on his belt and brought it about.

  Give him a piece of it, Beatty said.

  Webster made a small laugh.

  There’s nothin funny about this. Jesus, man. Hittin a child makes you laugh, does it?

  No, sir.

  Then belt him. Good and hard, so he knows we aint fartin about.

  You want me to hit him?

  That’s right.

  Webster smiled. He frowned. No joke? he said.

  No joke, constable. Not a bit.

  Webster came forward. He gripped the club in both hands, looking whiter than ever, his absurd moustache twitching. He stood near the boy, who was making himself slight against the paling fence, and he brought it high behind his shoulder and held it there. Where, sir? he said.

  Wherever you fancy, constable.

  Webster swung a tentative blow that caught the boy across the calf. William jumped. A deep and wounded scowl spread across his face.

  Of all the fuckin—I said belt him, man. Belt him. Eh? You hear?

  The junior constable looked around the street. Further along merchants at the assorted stores and tea rooms had started placing out signs and some stood on the footpath shielding the sun from their eyes and gazing at the scene unfolding before the doctor’s place. This new attention seemed to unsettle him still further. He lifted the club but did not swing.

  You want to learn the job, Beatty said, well this is the job. We aint trifles and we aint half-hearts. We do what needs doin.

  Sir, he’s a child.

  Beatty shook his head glumly. I’m as troubled by it as you are, he said. Course I am. But young shortshanks here believes he has the better of us. He wants to withhold what he knows. What do you say to that?

  Webster’s cheek gave a twitch.

  Constable, you are bound to it, Beatty said. Show me the man and I’ll show you the law, you ever heard that? So here you are, Mr Law himself. Stopped dead in his duties by a boy of twelve.

  Might we not put him under arrest, sir?

  For what? Under arrest. Bleedin hell. Are you a lawman or aint you? All you want is the whereabouts of the boy Oran Brown.

  Still Webster did not strike. His eyes in the harsh sun had begun to water. He lowered the club and stepped back. It’s not the proper thing, he said.

  Well now, Beatty said. Well now this is your first week, and you are liable to a bit of nerves. No shame in that. None at all.

  William stood watching with his mouth drawn tight. He didn’t know what to do but the thought of his mother was eating in his chest like spilled vinegar. You’ll know a man in small moments was what his father had told him. Here was one such. His own small moment. An appraisal of all his nerve. So he shuffled along the fence line closer to the picket gate and reached for the latch.

  Beatty came sharply about. With his long black club he planted a blow across William’s back that sprawled him on the dirt and when next William opened his eyes there was the constable, and behind him the sky, and the constable was speaking to him.

  What did I tell you? he said.

  William stared up at him.

  I told you not to move.

  He rolled over. He was dizzy and his shoulder hurt. The folk in the street looked away as he climbed to his feet, for there was little to be gained in helping a thing like him and all and sundry knew it. He rubbed his shoulder. The world spun. He concentrated on the task of rubbing. His shirt was an old one of his father’s turned in the sleeves and when he looked up at the constable his eyes had grown hard and dark. My pa will hear about this, he said.

  Beatty grinned. I’ll bet he does, he said. Well-known rogue is Thomas Toosey, he said to Webster. You can see the big dog’s nature in the pup. He stood grinning down at the boy from the shade of his peaked cap.

  The boy held his gaze. See how you grin when he puts a knife in you, he said.

  The mirth fell from Beatty’s face. He raised his club with mean intention, a quick action. He whaled the boy about the legs and body in series of two-handed thumps like the axe blows of foresters. William covered his head and curled into a ball but one blow caught on his ribs, drove the wind from his lungs, and another on the bones of his spine caused him to spasm in pain. A rising dread began to fill his thoughts. Beatty would end him here in the dust and sun. With each blow the pressure grew unbearable. Blood rose in his brain in a series of exploding colours.

  It was only the coming past of a butcher that caused Beatty to stop. He wheeled by with a barrow of meat cuts covered under a bloody hessian sack, his sleeves rolled to the elbows and stained red, meanly eyeing the constables as he crossed. Beatty turned and watched him pass, his billyclub half raised. See something as upsets you, John? he said.

  I can pick a coward, the butcher said.

  Oh cowards, Beatty said. Was we cowards last week when your cousin was robbed?

  The heavy twined tendons of the butcher’s forearms tensed. His mouth worked beneath his mighty beard. He wheeled on. Beatty nodded at him. Soon ripe, soon rotten, John, he said. Better get that meat delivered.

  When Beatty turned back his face had taken on a sour look. He rolled his tongue around his cheek as he studied the boy huddling on the dirt and that was all the space William required. He scrambled to his feet and broke for the park at full pace.

  Oi! Beatty called.

  It was a burst of unqualified terror that propelled him. His legs faltered, deadened and bruised. Every breath hurt his ribs. He stumbled and straightened and ran.

  The park stood green and sunlit at the top of the street and he crossed the intersection for the gate, the spread of lawn, and beyond it the deeper glades caulked with black. He did not look back but the pounding sound of their ankle jacks and their calling and swearing came back doubled off the tall stucco homes and he knew they were close. Upon entering the p
ark he hurdled without breaking step a derelict fellow at rest on the grass and he stumbled and steadied himself and bolted for the western edge where close-set trees grew in a thicket bored through with crawl holes. He scrabbled into one such scrub-cave and hid. The constables, each with his stick, were lumbering over the grass for the thicket. They yelled for him to show himself. William bellied deeper into the mess of crawl ways cut by the passing of children.

  Boy, you better show out here.

  He could hear them clubbing at the brush. He slid through dead leaves, pine needles, keeping low. White light cleaved into the under-dark. All about tiny birds took flight. He pulled and crawled and found the far side that led onto Brisbane Street and here he crouched to assess the likelihood of making the row of houses opposite. He could not see the constables, but he could hear them, hear the brush shattering where they clubbed at it. He looked either way along the empty street, took a breath, and ran.

  The houses were huge and well tended and he mounted the first fence he hit, tossed his leg and tumbled after it and lay behind with his steam-hammer heart thudding at the cut grass beneath. They called and called. He put his ear to the palings. A cart rattled by and when it had passed he listened hard. The constables called and it was like the lowing of cattle, yet he knew they had not seen him. He also knew Beatty, the stubborn bastard, would not stop.

  He looked around the yard where he’d sheltered. Trimmed apple trees and weeded gardens, a path winding through the shade. He sat up. Standing there in a broad sunhat was a gardener and he was all over burnt black with the sun with a full beard upon his face. He stared back at the boy. He had a broadfork buried into the earth and his foot was cocked on the crossbar where he’d paused in this action. He seemed about to speak when a call came from across the road.

  You there.

  It was Beatty.

  You aint seen a boy come along here, have you?

  The gardener looked at William huddled at the base of the fence and he looked at Beatty.

  Rough-lookin little bugger, Beatty said.

  The gardener yanked up his fork. Soil fell from the tines.

  Well? Tell me.

  Should rather put out me own eye, he said and drove the fork into the ground.