Once Matthew asked him if he read books. ‘As a boy. Now I read a bit about birds and snakes and lizards, especially the ones that live around here.’
‘But do you read about people? Stories?’
‘No. I’m not that interested in people. They’re too egocentric for my liking. Mirror creatures I call them—always regarding themselves. What other creatures in the world go round looking at themselves and wanting to change things to suit their fancies?’
Jerusalem comprised several acres of sandy semi-dune country near the river mouth. There the river seeped into the sea through narrow channels, which wound through reed beds or choked in marshy pools. Coastal ti-tree, tussock grass and succulents hugged the ground, crouched against the southern winds, violent in winter, cool and sharp in summer. They hunched and clung to their little piece of earth, tangling space at ground level, providing refuge for all earth-hugging creatures. Old Peter had bought a piece of this sandy land from the council, hoping to protect the snakes and lizards that inhabited the reed beds and the dunes.
Surrounding Jerusalem was a high boxthorn hedge and although there was a gate Matthew had his own secret entrance low down against the ground; a scooped passageway of hardened earth to wriggle through, while the boxthorn which he had carefully broken away, piece by piece, hooped above.
Sometimes, while wriggling through, he was afraid he might meet a snake. They basked on sandy hummocks or curled in the shade of low scrub. Little change had been made to the natural layout of the land. Seepage from the river provided small green pools where frogs spawned in the weed and where snakes could find a meal. Occasionally a snake could be found unexpectedly, stretched across open ground. On such occasions Matthew felt that he and the snake were equals, both inhabitants of the same piece of earth. He would wait patiently for the snake to slither away from his footsteps, or if the snake did not move he would creep on tip-toe around it, watching keenly to see that it made no sudden move.
He knew they were dangerous. When Gran first came to the house she had killed several snakes. She bent a piece of fence wire until she had a weapon strong and pliable and long enough to protect her and she tackled their unwanted visitors in the house. One day Matthew’s mother had found a snake lying on the hearth, like a cat curled beside the warmth of the range, head resting on the curve of a coil. It had looked peaceful to Matthew but his mother’s shriek had brought Gran running. The snake uncurled itself with one flurried motion but it was too late. Gran’s wire thumped on its back, once, twice, three times and it was dead. Margaret sank into a chair, hand against her heart, eyes closed, lashes limp on her pallid cheeks.
‘My heart,’ she whispered. ‘A drink of water, Matthew.’
He ran to obey, looking anxiously at Gran to urge her into action. But she was calmly picking up the snake on the end of the broom before throwing it outside.
‘Gran,’ he had whispered, tugging her skirt, ‘Mother’s ill.’
Gran glanced at her daughter and patted Matthew’s head. ‘You get her a drink of water, darling, and she’ll be fine.’
‘But her heart, Gran.’
‘As strong as you want to make it, Matthew.’ And she disappeared through the door balancing the slim body of the snake across the broom handle.
Matthew brought the water to his mother, who gulped and opened her eyes. Matthew, standing close, was aware of their grey-green depths and the strange black encircling ring etched in the iris, as if something alive had been painted and outlined on a piece of white china. She smiled and put out her hand to fondle his cheek. ‘My little man,’ she sighed. ‘My little man who looks after me.’ And she languidly adjusted her position in the chair and put up a hand to pat her hair.
Matthew stood awkwardly. He felt that some emotion was required of him, as a boy. Gran did not make him feel a boy, nor did Edward. To them he was Matthew. But his mother singled out that part of him he had not yet grown into. He knew he should say something, but what it was eluded him.
‘Well, are you my little man?’ Her coyness invited him to agree while he longed to deny her possessiveness. He felt sorry for her, guilty that he could not answer some need in her he did not understand. He was afraid to hurt her yet as she leaned toward him and smoothed her cheek against his, something sticky like honey ran through his veins and trapped him.
His eyes widened and he began to shake. If he agreed she might demand things of him he couldn’t give because he didn’t understand. If he denied her she might turn on him and scream. He had heard her scream before; once at a friend who came to play cards. She had accused Auntie Vi of cheating and shouted her out of the house with thrusting hands and vicious starting eyes. Auntie Vi had never visited them again and Mother always referred to her as ‘that bitch Violet’. He waited for the screams but they did not come. Instead she sat up smartly, coyness replaced by anxiety.
‘Heavens, Matthew! Don’t shake like that. I didn’t know that you were so afraid of snakes. What wretched creatures they are. How much we have to endure in this house. Come, sit down.’ And she drew him onto her lap.
‘Gran!’ she shouted. ‘Gran. That wretched snake. Look what a state he’s in.’
And Gran
