Rundles was busy. Most of the tables had been jammed on to the balcony with its white wrought-iron railing. With little excited giggles and coy apologies Margaret found a seat for Matthew and herself. She settled herself nodding and smiling to all around, patting her hair, peeling off her gloves, adjusting her skirt so that its folds fell elegantly over her legs and did not scrunch up tightly under her, dragging across her stomach.
Under the balcony, verandah roofs from street-level shops and businesses projected over the footpath. Men and boys who had climbed on to them sat or stood in groups. Streamers knotted to the balcony festooned the railings. Balloons, Union Jacks, rosettes decorated the posts. Below, on the street, Matthew could see only hats: cloth hats with coloured bands; straw hats with flowers and ribbons; rakish caps; felt hats with brims and hard homburgs with tiny outcropping ledges. Hats, not people, moved, turned, tilted, bowed, swept forward, hovered, retreated, even spun an occasional full circle to mingle with hats moving in another direction.
The soldiers came. The centre of the road between the hats was clear for them. The sun flashed off their bayonets. The band thumped and brayed and the crowd roared. Some straw hats broke away from the crowd like icing crumbling at the edge of a cake. They became women—Matthew could see their gowns. They ran across to the soldiers and kissed them as they marched, running alongside them until they were breathless and forced to stop. Then, looking rather lost, they edged back into the crowd which absorbed them and they became, once again, simply a hat.
‘Why do they carry knives, Mother?’
‘Hush, Matthew.’ Margaret looked embarrassed.
‘To disembowel the enemy, young-un.’ A man near to them picked up a silver butter knife and lunged with a broad grin at Matthew’s stomach. Startled, Matthew slid backwards. His weight overbalanced the chair and both fell to the floor.
‘Oh, dear. Not a good soldier. Not yet, anyway.’ The man laughed and winked at Margaret.
‘You are certainly not a good soldier, Matthew, darling. The gentleman had you in full retreat, didn’t he?’ With eyes sparkling at the gentleman she reached a hand to Matthew.
‘I don’t want to be a soldier. Never!’ he retaliated angrily. ‘It’s silly. My gran says they’ll all be dead soon and in black print. She didn’t want me to come.’
‘Well, well, if it isn’t Matthew and the pretty widow.’ An arm sleeved in cigar-brown wool reached down and picked up the fallen chair. ‘Gran isn’t here today.’
‘She’s not, not your gran!’ Matthew shouted. ‘She’s mine. Go away.’
‘Matthew, be quiet!’ Margaret hissed. ‘You’re making a scene. He’s upset,’ she said, putting an arm about Matthew and drawing him close. ‘My poor little man. It’s all right for you gentlemen. You’re big and strong but he’s just my little babykins still.’
‘Charming,’ the man in the cigar-brown suit murmured. ‘Charming,’ his comments loud enough for Margaret to hear. ‘Mother and child. The perfect Madonna touch. A woman should always be seen with a child. It enhances her,’ he said as he sat with them. ‘Have you ordered?’ Matthew wriggled uncomfortably on his chair. The humorist responsible for his accident had disappeared. His mother and this stranger, whose collar was too tight, smiled at each other across the table.
His lemonade spider arrived. It bubbled and winked and fizzed coolly. He licked his lips sweet from the misty explosions in his face. The lump of ice cream bobbed up and down as he chased it with his silver spoon. He caught it at the edge of the glass and scooping out little pieces felt them melt in his mouth. He never knew which was nicer—to eat the ice cream with lemonade sauce or squash it so that it dissolved into the drink. He decided to eat some of the ice cream from his spoon and then squash it.
When it had melted sufficiently he lifted his glass with a little sigh. It wasn’t very interesting just drinking it as he would an ordinary glass of milk. He would have liked a coloured straw. He raised his eyes and noted his mother still smiling at the man. They talked quietly. He thought he heard the man speak Edward’s name. Margaret cast up her eyes in denial and laughed as she reached across the table to play with the sugar spoon. A careless flick and a few grains spattered the man’s fingers spread close to hers about the base of the bowl.
Matthew pulled his chair closer to his mother’s. In the space left he could see across the room. There was Mr Werther—and Mr Werther saw him too. Matthew waved and Mr Werther nodded and smiled. He got up and bouncing and bobbing between the tables came across the room to Matthew.
‘Why, Matthew. My little Schubertianer. How are you today, eh?’
‘Mother,’ Matthew tugged her sleeve. ‘Mother, this is Mr Werther. You remember I told you about Mr Werther?’
‘Werther.’ The man in the cigar-brown suit frowned. ‘Werther—a German name?’
Mr Werther nodded. ‘I have been German. Now I am Australian. Many Australians I think were something else once. Some were even crooks. Now isn’t that true?’ And he twinkled as sharply at the man as he had at Miss Pilkington.
‘Mr Werther is my headmaster and he plays us music by Schubert. It is very beautiful.’
‘German music? You play our children German music?’
‘Much great music is German music. You have heard of Beethoven perhaps? Yes?’
‘Yes.’ Margaret a little breathless looked from one man to the other. ‘Everyone
