Wrath. Anne Davies

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СКАЧАТЬ voice braying away inside. I leant back against the veranda post and closed my eyes. I felt pretty good. We had a new teacher who seemed to like me, and he was great.

      Today, he’d said, “Right, everyone, gather around and I’ll read you a story.”

      We’d groaned a bit—quietly, because we weren’t too sure what the teacher’s limits were yet—and Glen Jacobs had said, “We’re Grade Six, sir, not little kids.”

      “And this is no story for little kids. It’s got murder, blood, executions, witchcraft and war.” He had us now. “Get comfortable.”

      We’d dived onto a pile of old beanbags in the corner, he’d pulled a beanbag out in front of us and we’d all wriggled down, and then he’d opened a book.

      “The story I’m going to read you happened a long while ago in Scotland. I’ll fill you in with bits of it and read other bits. The language is from those times, so it’s a bit different to that of today, but you can handle it; you’re bright kids.”

      We’d all felt the same, I think, when he said that: embarrassed but pleased, so pleased that we were having trouble keeping the grins off our faces. Old Mr Evans had only ever growled at us and told us how stupid we were.

      “Well,” the new teacher began, “there’d been a war, and three men were riding back across the cold, misty moors of Scotland. One was named Macbeth…” and he’d read on all afternoon, reading bits from the book and then explaining any puzzling words. It was cold outside that day, just like on that Scottish moor, and we’d sat there, leaning comfortably against one another, pulled into the spell those strange, magic words were weaving.

      Three o’clock arrived, but no one moved a muscle. The new teacher stopped and raised an eyebrow, and we’d all urged indignantly, “Go on, sir. Doesn’t matter about the time. You can’t stop there.”

      He’d laughed, clearly delighted with our response.

      “Great place to leave it! What I want you to do tonight… Let’s see—whatever takes your fancy. Either draw a picture of the witches around the cauldron, making sure you include as many of the ingredients as you can remember, or if you’d rather write than draw, you can write about how you think this may end. I promise if you all do your homework, we’ll read some more tomorrow.”

      We’d rolled clumsily out of our cocoon of beanbags and run out the door, shouting, “Thanks, sir,” and, “See you tomorrow, sir!”

      “Make sure you do your homework, Bevan,” my friend Martin said to the slackest person in the class as we shoved through the door.

      “No worries,” he’d said, “I love drawing. Fancy not having to write a whole lot of crap for homework.” And that was the best thing really: that a teacher had actually given us a choice, had actually realised that we too liked a bit of power in our lives.

      I was half-drowsing there, on the veranda, with the drone of the women’s voices lulling me almost to sleep, when suddenly I jerked wide-awake. I’d heard a man’s laughter in the kitchen, and it wasn’t Dad’s. I pushed open the wire door, and the voices stopped. They were all looking at me when I came into the kitchen: Mum, looking so pretty and flushed from laughing; Mrs Brockman, her red slash of a mouth wide open and dotted with crumbs of Nice biscuits caught in the fine hairs around her lips; and a man with gingery-coloured hair and ruddy skin. That’s all I took in before Mum said, “Ah, here he is. Luca, this is Mr Reid, Mrs Brockman’s brother. Say hello.”

      There was something about the way she said it, the way she was speaking to me but looking at him, the way she had her hand resting on his shoulder—I disliked him on sight. He’d smiled confidently at me, touching my mother’s hand as he stood up and moved around the table, his hand outstretched to pat me on the shoulder or shake my hand, I don’t know, but I flinched away. Having done it, I couldn’t undo it, so I stood, hardly breathing at my action. I felt rather than saw that he had not moved at all, frozen in that confident move forward, sure that I would allow myself to be touched by him.

      I turned and looked him full in the face. His mouth was pulled back into a half-smile now, his large white teeth bare, his green eyes bland and cold. I heard a sharp intake of air from my mother, and I knew I had embarrassed her. A pang went through me, not simply because I had hurt her in some way but because I knew something had changed. But what?

      “Luca, what’s wrong with you? How can you be so rude?” Mum blurted out. “Go to your room and see if you can find your manners.”

      I hurried from the kitchen and closed my bedroom door but not before hearing Mrs Brockman’s voice.

      “Don’t worry about it, Sylvie. It’s just his age. They can be rude little buggers, and it’ll probably get worse before it gets better.”

      “But he’s never like that,” my mother broke in, her voice a little shaky.

      “Don’t worry about it. He’ll be right as rain tomorrow.”

      Don’t bet on it, I thought and closed my door.

      That night, as we sat down for tea, Mum was still angry with me, but she didn’t refer to what happened. Instead, she started chattering away.

      “Mr Reid has come from Sydney. Mrs Brockman told him one of the new businesses in Geraldton was looking for staff, so he decided to move across here to be nearer to her now she’s on her own.”

      Katy looked up from munching her chop. “Is he a mechanic like Dad?”

      Mum’s eyes flicked away. “No, he’s an accountant. He’s a professional.”

      “Isn’t Dad a professional?” Katy mused, more interested in getting the last bit of meat from the bone.

      “No,” Mum said slowly, “Dad’s a mechanic. He works with his hands, like a tradesman. A professional person usually works in an office and has a qualification from a university, a degree. He works with his head more than his hands.”

      I felt somehow that Mum was saying Mr Reid was cleverer than Dad just because he was in an office. “How about a doctor?” I piped up. “He’s gone to university, but he wouldn’t be much good if he couldn’t work with his hands, would he? How could he set a broken bone or operate on someone?” I felt pleased with myself.

      Mum sighed. “Yes, you’re right, Luca. Anyway, you can ask him about the difference tonight. They’re both coming over for tea.”

      Katy and I both groaned. Mum slapped her hand on the table.

      “That’s enough! I treat your friends well whenever they come over. Do the same to mine. You forget that I get very lonely.”

      “But Dad comes home when he can!” I protested. Mum regarded me coolly but said nothing.

      Katy dropped her bone on the plate and said, “That was yum, Mum. What’s for sweets?”

      The moment was over. I wanted to say more, but I didn’t really know what I was trying to say. We ate our tinned fruit and ice-cream, Katy chattering on about some birthday party she was going to on the weekend and Mum promising to take her to town and buy a new dress for her. I cleaned my plate and went to my room.

      *

      Ray Reid was СКАЧАТЬ