Gran laughed. ‘Very well but first we must walk sedately so that no one suspects. And one of us must say, without appearing to look, “The lady in blue with the white hat.” We count to ten, pass her and then …’
‘Isolde,’ said Mr Werther.
‘Deirdre,’ said Gran.
Matthew looked back. The lady in blue was leaning on the rail talking to a young gentleman who held her white frilled parasol.
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘She should have a pale-blue name. I think it should float. Like a sky. Shouldn’t it?’ And he looked anxiously at them.
‘Yes, darling,’ Gran said. ‘It should float.’
‘But certainly, my Schubertianer. Isolde is much too heavy and Deirdre too sorrowful. Now a light-blue name. I wonder …’
At the end of the jetty a band played and a large gentleman with a fierce whiskery moustache sang ‘I am the Lord High Executioner’ in a deep sinking voice.
‘Mr Werther, what is an executioner?’
‘Not a nice person I’m afraid, Matthew. Someone who cuts off another’s head.’
‘Like Clicketty cut off the rooster’s head?’
‘Clicketty?’
‘A friend of ours,’ Gran said, and turned to Matthew. ‘A little like that, darling, but not quite.’
‘Do people always kill things, Gran?’
‘No, no,’ said Mr Werther. ‘This is the music and words of Mr Gilbert and Mr Sullivan. They had a little laugh at the English. That is so, Mrs Keogh?’
‘A very good laugh.’
‘One night perhaps … we could … You enjoy the theatre, Mrs Keogh?’
‘I enjoy theatre very much and my name’s Sarah, Mr Werther.’
‘Then we should take a little excursion. Matthew would like it also—eh, my Schubertianer?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘And perhaps a concert also.’
‘What magic, Mr Werther.’
‘Magic indeed, Mrs … Sarah.’
‘A common brawl, nothing but a common brawl. The police chasing him. Heavens, I hope he doesn’t come back here.’ Aghast, Mother sounded panicky.
‘He’s our friend, Margaret—in trouble.’
‘His own fault.’
‘But, Edward? Surely you don’t believe that he’d kill a man?’
‘How should I know? He might. An anarchist might do anything. Everyone says so.’
‘But Edward?’
‘Don’t keep saying ‘But Edward?’ Do you think he might come here?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘For those boxes of his. Can’t we get rid of them?’
‘They’re concealed under that rug.’
‘Regie …’
‘You didn’t tell him about them?’
‘I might have.’
‘Might have? For God’s sake, Margaret. How could you?’
‘He noticed them a long time ago. I said they were Edward’s love letters.’
‘He didn’t believe you?’
‘How should I know? I thought they were love letters.’
‘Three boxes of love letters? Don’t play the fool with me, Margaret.’
‘It’s safer to be a dumb fool than a clever one. No one ever suspects me of anything. We should get rid of them—burn them in the incinerator.’
‘No. We have them in trust.’
‘And if they’re found?’
‘They’ve already been found, Margaret.’
‘But not seen.’
‘No, not seen. Maybe … Let me think.’
‘Well, don’t think too long. Honour doesn’t get you far in this world.’
And as Margaret and Gran’s eyes met, a look of understanding passed between them.
‘Has something awful happened to Edward in Mildura?’ Matthew asked Gran anxiously.
‘No, of course not, darling.’
‘You and Mother were talking.’
‘Saying this and that, darling.’
‘But I heard …’
‘Nothing, Matthew. Nothing for you to worry about.’
But he did worry and that night he dreamed of the boxes again. Mother kept taking pieces of her hair out of the boxes and throwing them into the incinerator. ‘Better get rid of it,’ she said. ‘I’ll never get it dry tonight. There’s too much of it—too much of it.’
He stirred, woke and was glad no flames flickered from the shadows tucked greyly into corners. Then he returned to sleep.
Edward’s voice woke him. He heard him speaking with Gran in the kitchen. He was back. Matthew bounded out of bed and raced to the door. ‘Edward!’ he shouted. ‘Edward!’ But the kitchen was empty. Light from the single bulb glared vacantly, brazen at the centre, murky around the perimeter of the room. He ran into the parlour. Gran was there, standing near the door of his father’s room.
‘Ssh, Matthew, ssh.’
‘I heard Edward.’
‘He’s gone.’
‘But I wanted …’
‘He’s gone, Matthew.’
‘He’ll be back tomorrow?’
‘Maybe.’
Matthew stood desolately. ‘I wanted … Won’t he be back?’
‘I said maybe. Now go back to bed.’ Matthew hesitated. ‘To bed I say.’
Reluctantly he returned to the kitchen. Better go to the lavatory first, he thought unhappily, now he was out of bed. The night was windy. It murmured and rustled and creaked with insinuating voices and stealthy steps. Shadows whisked out of trees and bushes and caught his feet in spidery embraces. Moonlight came and went, erratic, unreal as the fitful feverish images of sick dreams. Matthew ran and shadows licked his heels and fawned in front of him. He wished he had used the pot under his bed. Tonight the urine would have smelt warm, familiar, human.
The outhouse seemed darker than usual. The little pig noses of the Dolichos flowers sniffled in the vine and loose tendrils tapped and lamented against the roof. From the outhouse he could see the kitchen light intruding into the dark garden, splitting apart the immediate shadows, fading to a ghostly vapour where darkness became impenetrable. And there, just on the edge of the shadows, Matthew saw the ghosts.
Edward hadn’t gone. He was there with Mother.
‘Edward!’ he shouted. ‘Edward!’ And he ran towards them.
The kitchen door flung open and Gran rushed out. ‘Matthew, come inside!’ she called, as two men jumped from the shadows and caught his arms. ‘Where’s Kingsley?’ they asked him. ‘Edward Kingsley?’
‘He was here with Mother,’ he announced.
‘No, Matthew. He wasn’t. Let my grandson go. At once.’
Matthew searched about him, bemused, obsessed by his hope.
‘But Edward was here,’ he said. ‘I saw them, Gran. Like before. They weren’t ghosts … were they?’
‘Ghosts,’ one of the men laughed.
‘I thought they were ghosts,’ Matthew said. ‘But they …’
‘You heard him,’ Gran snapped. ‘He thought he saw ghosts.’
‘No, Gran.’
‘Be quiet, Matthew. Be silent!’
‘Perhaps we’ll just come in and ask a few questions about these “ghosts”.’
‘You will not.’ And taking Matthew’s hand firmly Gran dragged him toward her. The men let him go. ‘You’ll not question him about anything.’
‘And how will you stop us?’ They
