Once when Matthew came a snake slithered away from the doorway, its arrow head and stocky body black and thick against the pale ground. He stood back politely to let it pass. He felt no resentment in sharing his refuge with these creatures. They did not assault his security or his privacy as the man in the cigar-brown suit, who now regularly invaded his home, had done. He was always there in the parlour, talking and talking and talking to Mother. He lounged back on the settee, legs crossed at the ankles, one arm resting along the back of the couch, fingers tiptoeing in the direction of Mother’s shoulder.
Mother admonished Matthew to be polite but Gran always found work to do in the garden or her room.
They quarrelled, his mother and Gran. This was not new. Matthew had heard the crescendos and diminuendos of their irritations for years. But now Gran was afraid. He felt her fear spread through the dialogue. The man was the cause of her fear. When she argued it was as if she were struggling to lift something from dark liquid, squeeze it out and thrust it at Mother. But Mother would not take it. Each time Gran thrust it she threw up her pretty hands and pushed it away.
‘He’s after something, Margaret.’
‘A fig for your suspicions.’
‘How does he earn his living?’
‘How should I know? He’s a gentleman. He’s not going to tell me that—a woman.’
‘You’re a fool, Margaret. He’s not honest. Does he ever ask you about Edward?’
‘Occasionally,’ she laughed. ‘I think he’s jealous.’
‘What exactly does he ask you?’
‘Oh, this and that.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘I don’t know. Why should I?’
‘He’s after something. Or someone.’
‘Perhaps he’s after me.’ Margaret bridled.
‘What man isn’t?’ said Gran.
‘What do you mean by that? My own mother, too.’
‘You gather too many moths, Margaret.’
‘It’s fun.’
‘No, it’s not a game. This man isn’t playing a game. Don’t your intuitions tell you anything about him?’
‘Only that he’s smitten. Like Edward.’
‘It’s a pity you never see past yourself,’ Gran exploded and walked out.
Later he had heard Gran say to Edward: ‘He comes here too often, asks Margaret too many questions.’
‘She knows nothing.’
‘Those boxes—they’re politically subversive.’
‘She’s forgotten them, Sarah.’
‘I hope so.’
He dreamed of the man and Edward and his mother and the boxes. His mother sat on the boxes in her nightgown, her hair loosened down her back. It was on fire. Yellow and red tongues of flame with blue lightning flickers licked the strands of her hair so that its redness appeared like a bush burning fiercely from within.
Matthew watched helplessly, waiting for her figure to ignite and shrink into a blackened twig. He begged Edward to help but Edward shouted, ‘Keep sitting on the boxes!’ She screamed that she must dry her hair because it was wet and dripping down her back. Matthew could see it dripping pieces of fire but he could do nothing. The man in the brown suit held out a towel to her, enticing her to jump off the boxes to dry her hair. She reached towards him.
‘No!’ Matthew screamed. ‘No! Don’t take it! Don’t!’
Gran rushed in. He clutched her.
‘I had a dream. Edward was there and that man and Mother and her hair was on fire.
‘Will Edward come back soon?’
‘Of course.’
‘How far away is Mildura?’
‘Not far for Edward.’
‘That’s good.’ And he drank the hot milk she brought him and went back to sleep.
Edward had gone to Mildura some weeks earlier. He had helped Gran bury all Father’s plates and cups and knives and forks at the end of the garden. In the incinerator they burned his clothes. They closed the canvas blinds on the verandah room, stuffed papers in the interstices and prepared to seal the door. Edward pulled out his boxes and put them in a corner of the parlour.
‘They’re just boxes, Sarah. All houses have boxes. The more obvious, the less suspicious.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Gran, but she sounded uneasy. ‘Perhaps my room?’
‘Where?’ Margaret laughed. ‘It’s so cluttered now. Leave Edward’s love letters here. Then we know he’ll come back—for them.’
‘I’ll come back for all of you,’ Edward said and Margaret teased: ‘All of us will be glad then.’
‘Oh, Margaret,’ Gran reproached later. ‘Leave him alone. You don’t really want …’
‘Sometimes I do. He’s so attractive. And I’m free now.’
‘It’s cruel.’
‘Edward can look after himself.’
Matthew wished he did not feel so confused. Mother said that Edward could look after himself but he heard Gran talking to Edward and he knew Gran was worried about him.
When he came to say goodbye Margaret was away at the Goodmans’. ‘I’m sorry, Edward,’ Gran said.
‘No matter,’ he shrugged.
‘You don’t think …?’
‘No. It’s not possible, Sarah. We’re too different.’
‘Such a pity, Edward. Such a pity.’
He shrugged again, then, leaning across the table kissed Gran on the cheek.
‘You’ll still come to visit us?’ she asked.
‘Of course. Who else discusses the state of the world with me as you do?’
‘Matthew loves you,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘I had hoped … You’ll take care in Mildura?’
‘I always take care.’
‘You’re a fake, Edward. You’ve never taken real care in your life.’
‘If I took too much care, Sarah, I wouldn’t have a life—not the sort of life I want anyway. Care is for the cautious and the cautious don’t change anything.’
Gran looked at him, puckering her mouth. ‘You’re a fool, Edward. You know what has happened to political organisers in Mildura. Two ended up in the river with broken jaws.’
‘They won’t do that to me. I’ll break a few jaws maybe …’
‘Just what I mean, Edward. Don’t give them excuses.’
‘Reasons, Sarah, reasons. Fruit pickers live like pigs, paid a pittance, no rights—and as yet no organisation. Someone’s got to change that. The first meeting I hold will be in front of the biggest plate-glass window in town.’
Gran laughed. ‘You’re too clever for your own good, Edward.’
‘Impudent the last judge called me.’
‘They had no evidence then.’
‘And they’ll get none this time.’
‘They mightn’t need it, Edward. They can manufacture it, remember. Don’t
