Tap, tap, tap. Carriage-return lever. New line of text.
‘Like . . . morning . . . bread . . . may . . . your . . . spirit . . . rise.’
Molly looks up at her customers. ‘Rest in peace . . . Lloyd,’ she says.
And Mildred turns to her son and Clem’s eyebrows rise in approval. Mildred beams. ‘Well, I quite like that,’ she says. She thinks on it some more. ‘“Like morning bread”. Yes, I think Lloyd would like that, too. Yes. Yes. Let’s go with that, shall we?’
‘Of course, I need to tell you, Mrs Holland,’ Molly offers, ‘two more lines of engraving on the stone will cost you an additional four shillings, but I find customers don’t usually mind paying a little extra when it comes to honouring the departed.’
Mildred turns to her son, Clem. He shrugs, unsure.
‘It’s only two more lines,’ Mildred says, loosening the grip on her purse.
*
A red tin thimble in the centre of the small wooden kitchen table where Molly and her father have breakfast. Horace sweats. He is thin. All limbs and burden. His hair is combed back hard and straight. He stinks of methylated spirits. Alcohol leeching from his armpits and his breath. Beads of sweat above his top lip.
Molly places a white enamel mug of black tea on the table. Her father picks it up with his right hand, which shakes when he lifts the mug to his lips.
‘What day is it?’ Horace asks.
‘Thursday,’ Molly says. ‘You drank through Monday and Tuesday. Slept through Wednesday.’
‘Did I leave you be?’
Molly nods.
‘I stayed in my room and read,’ she says.
Horace nods now, relieved.
‘What are you reading?’
‘The Complete Works of William Shakespeare.’
Horace nods.
‘I think I want to be an actress, like Greta,’ Molly says.
‘I thought you were going to be a famous poet like Emily Dickens?’
‘Dickinson, Dad,’ Molly says. ‘And I’m going to be a famous actress-poet named Marlene Sky.’
Horace nods again, not at all surprised by his daughter’s announcement. ‘You’ll make more money diggin’ graves,’ he says. ‘But I guess you won’t get no standing ovation for hiding the dead.’ He lifts and looks at his shaking left hand, turns it into a fist.
‘What’s that stuff you and Uncle Aubrey have been drinkin’?’ Molly asks.
‘Mind your own business.’
‘You’re becoming more and more like him, Dad,’ Molly says.
‘Like who?’
‘Like Uncle Aubrey.’
Another shaky sip of tea.
‘You look like a shadow,’ Molly says. ‘Uncle Aubrey is nothing but shadow. You’re shadow, too, Dad, but you’re light as well.’
Horace says nothing.
‘When are you going to stand up to him?’ Molly asks. ‘He doesn’t care about us, Dad. He doesn’t care about Greta. He only cares for the gold. The only thing that makes him feel anything is the way that gold glows. I see it, Dad. He’s gold sick. He’s always been gold sick. He’s always talkin’ about my grandfather and how gold sick he got, but I reckon Aubrey’s as sick right now as a man can be.’
Horace rubs his temples with his fingers, trying to ease the blows of the dropping hammer in his head.
‘He thinks that glowing will chase away the shadow,’ Molly says, her train of thought burning with new coal now. ‘But it won’t. It’s already too dark.’
Horace rubs his forehead, closes his eyes. There’s no telling where a memory will come from; no figuring where and when the sleeping librarian of Horace Hook’s memory room is likely to wake with a start and dig into the dusty drawers of lived experience and produce a folder filled with a past-coloured story. Aubrey Hook and Horace Hook throwing rocks at each other’s faces. Horace is twelve and his brother is thirteen. They’re pickaxing the face of a goldmine near Tom’s Gully along Mount Bundey Creek, far south of Darwin. Their father, Arthur Hook, a seasoned gold prospector, has ridden on horseback to Pine Creek on a supply run. No information in the library on what started it all, only how it ended. Aubrey lands a rock the size of a tennis ball on Horace’s right eye. Horace responds with a similar-sized rock that Aubrey does not duck or turn away from but willingly allows to land flush on his mouth, where it dislodges one of his two front teeth. Aubrey searches the dirt floor of the goldmine dugout and grips another rock the size of his metal water canister and throws it at his younger brother, who ducks swiftly out of the way of the deadly projectile. The thrown rock bounces against the chalky mine wall and falls beside Horace’s work boots. He picks it up and snap-throws it back. Once more, Aubrey does not duck or turn away or guard his face with his hands. He stands proudly and lets the rock hit his face so hard that it breaks his nose. Blood runs across his chin and down his work shirt. And Aubrey Hook smiles. Red across his teeth. A mouth full of blood. Something in the smile makes Horace turn cold. Something across his brother’s face other than blood and rock dust. It’s satisfaction.
‘Why do you need permission from Aubrey to let me go to the Star with Sam?’ Molly asks.
‘Be quiet now, Molly,’ Horace says.
‘I’ve been watching you both,’ Molly says. ‘There’s something strange about you two. I think that moonshine is sending you both mad. I think you should stop drinkin’ for a bit.’
Horace raises his eyebrows. ‘Tom Berry’s grandkid telling me about madness,’ he says. ‘I like that.’
‘Maybe you’ve got the curse, too,’ Molly says.
‘Be quiet now, Molly.’
The girl is silent for a long moment. But then Molly breaks the silence. Molly always breaks the silence.
‘I was thinking about Mum the other day,’ she says, softly. Horace reacts to that word ‘Mum’. He turns his head like he turns his head in pubs when anyone says the name ‘Violet’ or the word ‘wife’.
‘I was looking in the mirror of her duchesse,’ Molly continues, ‘and I was missing her so much. I felt so sad about it, but I couldn’t cry. I tried so hard to let some tears out for her because sometimes I
