unfinished sketch of a house with many windows. It was hardly as if living in a civil society was natural to us, I thought, annoyed. We obviously didn’t have to go back many generations to find a state of utter lawlessness, coexisting alongside the Draconian. In the museum, while Veronica had been admiring herself in the reflective glass, I’d read of one of Australia’s first contributions to the true-crime genre. It was the diary of the escaped convict turned bushranger Michael Howe. In 1818, Howe’s knapsack was found containing a book he’d made from kangaroo skin. Inside, with the blood of the animals he’d slaughtered, he’d written down his dreams. He’d written of his victims seeking retribution. He’d written of the other bushrangers he’d betrayed, and of Aborigines killing him. He’d written of his sister, whom he loved, back in England. And of wanting to live in a nice house with a little garden. In blood, he’d listed the fruit, flowers, and vegetables he hoped one day to grow.
I watched the boys playing, and it occurred to me you could do a fabulous re-creation of Howe’s diary for young readers. Children would love the kangaroo-fur cover and scarlet print. The story had the gore; it had the mystery; it had the pathos. It was so subtle you could only read between the lines to understand that in Chapter One boatloads ofBritish riffraff spilled out. Runaway convicts, like the blood diarist himself, learned bushcraft from the Aborigines and disappeared into the bush. Meanwhile the Aborigines, terrified of the colonists’ guns vomiting forth thunder, had their land cleared. Dispossessed, they formed raiding parties, lighting decoy fires to steal settlers’ guns and food. Settlers were speared, but during the seven-year Black War the whites that died did not surpass the number that arrived monthly on each new convict ship. And by 1839 most of the indigenous population had died or been driven away. Our local history is the Ur -true-crime story, and in volume after volume the bodies pile up. The government placed a bounty on Michael Howe, and the bushranger was discovered living like a wildman, wearing kangaroo skins in a tiny hut covered with flowers. His killers decapitated him and his head was placed on display in Hobart.
“Henry and Darren!” I yelled. “Stop that immediately!”
I turned. Veronica was watching me. She became sleepy again, stretching. She touched at a thin string of seed pearls around her neck like at a rosary. I cleared my throat. The pearls looked like puffed rice. “It must be incredibly hard in your profession,” I said, “having to concentrate day in, day out on such brutality.”
“Incredibly,” she answered lightly. “It was incredibly hard. I was so squeamish; even terrified of blood when I started. But still, like everyone else, I’d rather read about a crime of passion.” Veronica smiled. “Of course, they’re the most romantic crimes; the ones we respond to most vehemently. Who gets worked up about white-collar crime? Who really cares about money laundering or embezzling?”
“No one does.”
“Exactly.” We both laughed, and this laughter made us intimate. We turned to watch the children as they continued escaping. “Lucien does think you’re lovely,” Veronica said again. “When I was little we always had such sadists as teachers.” She touched my arm, adding, “You really got the feeling they despised children; all soaking their whips in brine.”
“You’ve got to love children in this profession,” I told her quickly, “just to do the job.”
Veronica raised an eyebrow. “I can imagine.”
“And your son is such a terrific smart kid.”
“Thank you.”
Lucien was tearing Darren from a shark’s jaws, then whittling a spear. I chuckled, expecting Veronica to join me. She smiled slightly sadly; “I don’t think he’s got any of my genes at all. In photos of him and his father around the same age, it’s uncanny.” She shook her
I watched the boys playing, and it occurred to me you could do a fabulous re-creation of Howe’s diary for young readers. Children would love the kangaroo-fur cover and scarlet print. The story had the gore; it had the mystery; it had the pathos. It was so subtle you could only read between the lines to understand that in Chapter One boatloads ofBritish riffraff spilled out. Runaway convicts, like the blood diarist himself, learned bushcraft from the Aborigines and disappeared into the bush. Meanwhile the Aborigines, terrified of the colonists’ guns vomiting forth thunder, had their land cleared. Dispossessed, they formed raiding parties, lighting decoy fires to steal settlers’ guns and food. Settlers were speared, but during the seven-year Black War the whites that died did not surpass the number that arrived monthly on each new convict ship. And by 1839 most of the indigenous population had died or been driven away. Our local history is the Ur -true-crime story, and in volume after volume the bodies pile up. The government placed a bounty on Michael Howe, and the bushranger was discovered living like a wildman, wearing kangaroo skins in a tiny hut covered with flowers. His killers decapitated him and his head was placed on display in Hobart.
“Henry and Darren!” I yelled. “Stop that immediately!”
I turned. Veronica was watching me. She became sleepy again, stretching. She touched at a thin string of seed pearls around her neck like at a rosary. I cleared my throat. The pearls looked like puffed rice. “It must be incredibly hard in your profession,” I said, “having to concentrate day in, day out on such brutality.”
“Incredibly,” she answered lightly. “It was incredibly hard. I was so squeamish; even terrified of blood when I started. But still, like everyone else, I’d rather read about a crime of passion.” Veronica smiled. “Of course, they’re the most romantic crimes; the ones we respond to most vehemently. Who gets worked up about white-collar crime? Who really cares about money laundering or embezzling?”
“No one does.”
“Exactly.” We both laughed, and this laughter made us intimate. We turned to watch the children as they continued escaping. “Lucien does think you’re lovely,” Veronica said again. “When I was little we always had such sadists as teachers.” She touched my arm, adding, “You really got the feeling they despised children; all soaking their whips in brine.”
“You’ve got to love children in this profession,” I told her quickly, “just to do the job.”
Veronica raised an eyebrow. “I can imagine.”
“And your son is such a terrific smart kid.”
“Thank you.”
Lucien was tearing Darren from a shark’s jaws, then whittling a spear. I chuckled, expecting Veronica to join me. She smiled slightly sadly; “I don’t think he’s got any of my genes at all. In photos of him and his father around the same age, it’s uncanny.” She shook her
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