determination to be Good. A year ago, three months ago, Harry had had no interest in anything but a successful business and now he was acting as if he had sole proprietorship of the moral dilemmas of life. He had ignored Alex when he nervously, tentatively, suggested there was something wrong with various Krappe Chemicals products.
Now he, Harry Joy, was taking control.
'Still,' said Alex, 'it's good to see you, you old bastard.' But his smile was uncertain.
'Don't worry about the money, Alex. I'll make sure you don't go out on the street.'
'Sure,' said Alex and Harry decided not to hear the sarcasm in his voice. Instead they sat and talked about who were Captives and who were Actors and as afternoon came on and the bottle of Scotch gave up its last drinks, they composed a list, based on Alex's information.
Outside the streets were flooding and cars were stalling and being abandoned. But when the list was complete Harry Joy rolled up his trousers and went out to find a taxi.
Alex stayed in his office trying to open his filing cabinet with a screw-driver, cursing Harry Joy who now had the key.
It was one of those hot still mornings that come in the begin-ning of the wet season: the sky a brilliant cobalt blue, and beneath it legions of green all freshly washed or newly born and only the rustling dry leaves hanging like giant dried fish from the banana trees might suggest death, and then only to someone hunting eagerly for its signs. The air that blew through the open windows of the old wooden house was sweet and warm, and honeysuckle and frangipani lent their aromatic veils, which billowed like invisible curtains in the high-ceilinged rooms.
Harry Joy whistled and spread the old newspapers across the kitchen table and set up the boot polish (dark tan, light tan, black and neutral) and the matching brushes and the polishing cloths. He brought to his goodness the slightly obsessive concern with method which is the hallmark of the amateur. He picked up the first pair of shoes and was pleased to see them muddy. He took an old knife and scraped them carefully; then a slightly damp cloth to wipe them; then the brush and polish; now the cloth. Then considering he had rushed the job and perhaps done it badly, he removed the laces and began again.
In the hour before eight o'clock he had cleaned the whole family’s shoes, and none of them had so much as stirred. He allowed himself the luxury of a cup of tea and while the kettle boiled he watched a family of honey- eaters attack the last of the previous season's pawpaws on the tree outside the kitchen window. He tried to memorize the form and colours of the birds but he knew he had no talent for it. In three minutes' time the honey- eaters would be a crude blurr in his memory and all he would know was that they had a yellow marking near the eye.
When he had finished his tea he began to clean the win-dows, beginning in the kitchen where a fine layer of grease lay across the surface of the glass. He was engaged in rubbing this dry with old newspaper when David, already dressed with his wet hair combed neatly, came into the kitchen.
'Morning,' said Harry.
David took in the shoes which were now lined up on the back doorstep, the clean window, and Harry Joy resplendent in bare scarred chest and Balinese sarong, his taut body glis-tening with sweat, his yellowed teeth biting his lower lip in concentration. He didn't know what to be indignant about first.
He picked up his shoes. 'Did you do this?'
'Yes.'
'Dad, please, you mustn't.'
'It's O.K., it gave me pleasure.'
It was true. He couldn't remember ever having had so nice a time as this morning, alone with his family’s shoes. He had enjoyed everything about it.
'You must not,' his son said.
'They were dirty.' He rubbed the window until the smeary marks had all gone. 'It gave me pleasure,' he said. 'I liked cleaning them for you.'
David's dark eyes shone. 'No. I should clean your shoes.'
'If you want to… '
'But it's wrong for you to clean mine.'
'David, I enjoyed it.'
He was not displeased with his son's irritation. It seemed to indicate the efficacy of the ritual.
'But you mustn't, Dad, you mustn't. Don't you understand? Why don't you understand?' He started shaking his head and smoothing down his wet hair.
'What is there to understand?'
'You're so insensitive, I can't believe it! It's like the Fiat. You never understood why that was wrong;'
'It embarrassed you.'
David was pouring milk over breakfast cereal. 'Oh great,' he said sarcastically. 'After ten years you understand. Great.'
'Well you don't have to tell your friends I cleaned your shoes.'
'Dad,' David pushed his bowl away as if he'd be sick if he ate any more, 'you are the head of this household. Doesn't that mean anything to you?'
'It seems a funny sort of household these days,' Harry said, 'to me, at least. How does it seem to you?'
'And whose fault do you think that is?' David said, his eyes wide and challenging, his head cocked on one side. 'Do you think it's mine? Do you thilik it's Lucy's? Do you think it's Bettina's? It's yours.'
'Mine,' Harry said happily. 'It's my fault.' The windows were so clean he could see the honey-eaters much more clearly. They had a grey underbelly and little red wattles hanging like earrings from the sides of their heads. He stared at them with fascination, looking at the hollow they had made inside the pawpaw.
'You are the head of the household. You should lead us. You should punish us.'
'Jesus.'
'Yes. When we do wrong, we should be punished.'
'Christ.'
'There is no discipline. That's what's wrong. That's why Mum is unhappy. That's why Lucy takes drugs.'
'What drugs?'
'You mustn't clean our shoes or shine our windows. You've got to make us do all that.'
'What drugs?'
'When we have our lunch today you let everyone else do the work. You walk in the garden. You'll make us all happy.'
'No.'
'You and I can play Monopoly.'
'I thought you were going to work.'
David retrieved his bowl of breakfast cereal. 'Really,' he said, 'there's not an awful lot I can do.'
Harry returned to his window and tried to forget about this painful impersonation of his son. He allowed his mind to focus on the merest speck of fly-shit, to think about nothing else but the problem of its removal. He vaguely heard David depart and he didn't hear Bettina arrive at all.
'You are about as subtle as a ton of bricks!'
She didn't look well. Her mascara ran over one eye. It gave her a crooked, slightly demonic appearance. She sat at the kitchen table and angrily smoked two cigarettes.
When she had finished the second cigarette she put it out very brutally. 'You are trying to make me look like a tart,' she said.
She was trying to make him angry but he wouldn't get angry. He was Good.
He put on the kettle and started to make the tea.
'Don't you damn well make me tea.' Bettina was stumbling to her feet. 'Don't you dare.'
He clung to the tea canister determinedly. 'It gives me pleasure,' he said. 'Please. Let me.'
Bettina turned off the gas and threw the water down the sink. 'Don't try and be a martyr with me.'
'I'm just making you tea.'
'I know what you're doing.'
With a terrible chill it occurred to Harry she might know exactly what he was doing.
'Oh,' he said. He pursed his lips and then sucked in his cheeks.
