Mallawindy by Joy Dettman Page B

opened the book, touching the script on the flyleaf with afat finger. ‘Tell me Burton, is it fair that disease should steal into this town, pass by the Aborigines’ camp, skip over the Wests and the Dooleys with their uncountable hoards, who probably wouldn’t have missed an offspring or two, then take my boy?’ He fondled the tiny book for a moment more, then he tossed it to her and watched her sure hands catch and hold it. ‘Perhaps there is a good lesson to be learned there. Man must never place all of his eggs in one basket.’
    â€˜No. Maybe fall over, spill all eggs. Two basket carry more eggs, make better balance, but sometimes fall with two basket, break more egg. Sometime better be careful, only take one basket, I think.’
    â€˜You speak from a wealth of experience with eggs, child,’ he smiled.
    Ann smiled with him. ‘Yes,’ she nodded. ‘Thank you for your Johnny book,’ she signed. ‘Wish I have bigger word for say thank you. Not say what I feel. I will treasure your Johnny book forever.’
    â€˜Forever is too long, Burton. Far too long, and too far away.’
    â€˜Yes, forever. Sorry for messy test paper.’ Signing, she backed away, the book clasped to her breast.
    â€˜Don’t give up hope of high school. Other avenues are open to us. Good afternoon, child. Put your name in that book.’

the books
    On the final day of the school year, Malcolm declared a half day holiday and the ladies at the Shire Hall cursed him. He didn’t care. His Thermos was empty. He’d promised himself an early appointment at the hotel.
    It was after seven before he left the hotel to drive to the Burton’s property. It had been a long afternoon, but well spent. He was barely able to stand.
    â€˜What do you want here, you bloody old drunk?’ Jack Burton opened the front door, found Malcolm gaining support from the wall.
    â€˜A slight case of the pot and the kettle, Mr Burton. However, I am here tonight to see the child, Ann,’ Malcolm said, eyeing the man who had it all, while he had nothing.
    He led Ann back to his car and opened the boot, steadying himself a moment before hauling a heavy case to the dust at her feet.
    She could smell the strong scent of brandy. Wide-eyed, she stood before him, her head shaking, denying the gift, but he placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘My only treasures,’ he said. ‘Into your hands I commend them. Fare thee well, child. You prevented my life being a total fiasco.’ His bulk squeezed into the small vehicle, he drove away.
    The case was old, heavy. Ann couldn’t lift it. She squatted beside it, opened its clips, then peered at its contents. Benjie came and together they struggled with it to the verandah, then Jack took charge, lifting it easily to the kitchen table.
    Open mouthed, the children grouped around the treasure trove of books, old books, expensive books. Jack handled them, selected, rejected, until he found Macbeth. An unfamiliar smile on hislips, he walked to the lounge room where he sat close to the light, reading. It was almost ten before he handed the book to Ann. ‘Treasure them,’ he said. ‘I envy the bastard’s guts.’
    As Ann took the book, a sheet of paper fluttered to the floor. She stooped, picked it up.

    Miss Ann Elizabeth Burton,
    I defer to our good friend Mr Shakespeare, in an attempt to explain my actions.

    â€˜ When to the session of sweet silent thought,
    I summon up remembrances of things passed,
    I sigh the lack of many things I sought
    and with old woes, new wail my dear times waste.
    Then can I drown an eye unused to flow,
    for precious friend hid in deaths dateless night,
    And weep afresh loves long since cancelled woe
    and moan expense of many a vanished sight.
    Then can I grieve at grievances forgone
    and heavily from woe to woe tell ore,
    The sad account of for bemoaned moan,
    which I now pay as if not paid before. ’

    Words