In a Fishbone Church Page 12

  ‘It might be something really special,’ he said. ‘Do you think, Dad? It might be a dinosaur egg. Maybe it’s a dinosaur egg, what do you think? Do you think I’ll be famous if it is?’

  ‘What I think is that certain boys shouldn’t go getting excited about certain stones that usually turn out to be duds.’

  They hauled the rock into the back seat, shifting some of the smaller stones they had found that day. Clifford seemed in a hurry to get home, and Gene bumped about in the back seat as they swung round the twists in the road. Going over the hill, as the rear of the car lunged towards the edges of the road, Gene could see right down the cliffs to the sea. He clutched at the rock.

  ‘Dad?’ he said quietly. ‘I think it would have been dangerous to put it in the boot.’ Another flash of ocean. ‘I think it would have been too heavy.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ said Violet when they unpacked the car. ‘ Where are you planning to put all these stones?’

  ‘I hope you realise,’ said Clifford, ‘what an important discovery this may be. And it’s very educational for Gene.’

  A fortnight later, the Stiltons were famous, more or less.

  ‘You see?’ said Clifford as the doorbell went and another group arrived to see the stone.

  ‘Hmm,’ said Violet, putting the jug on for the fifth time that day.

  Fossil Believed 5 Million Years Old

  The man known to us as Cliff, the friendly Durham Street butcher, has discovered the fossilised head of a groper thought to be around five million years old. Clifford Stilton was exploring a North Canterbury beach with his son Gene when the fossil was found.

  ‘We were strolling along a rocky beach, keeping our eyes open for hidden treasure,’ said Mr. Stilton. ‘Gene was at my side when I just about tripped over it.’

  Mr. Stilton said he noticed the strange brown lines around the stone, but such a heavy fossil had to be good to be carried any distance at all.

  ‘Gene was doubtful whether we would be able to manage, but I assured him we could. We got it back, but it seemed to be more nuisance than it was worth. I worked away on the stone most of the next day, with Gene eagerly watching and helping. I was very careful and only took a fraction of the stone off each time,’ said Mr. Stilton. ‘At the end of the day I had to admit I thought we had a dud. Nothing of significance had shown up.’

  Puzzled

  He said he was disappointed and left it for a while. The part that puzzled him was a socket with what looked like an eye, he said.

  ‘But who had ever heard of a fossilised eye: not I,’ he joked.

  ‘I concentrated on the eye and the more I did, the more real it became. I kept at it, got off all the surplus stone, and suddenly – there it was. I’ve caught a few groper in my time, but I never thought I would find a groper’s head inside a stone.’

  Mr. Stilton said that sometimes in fossil finding the clue in the stone was as small as a pin’s head – ‘in fact, it needs a strong magnifying glass to prove it is a clue. You never really know just how good your find is until the stone is all chipped away and the fossil is safely exposed. Many good specimens are ruined with the use of a hammer in the wrong hands.’

  Mr. Stilton offered this advice to would-be fossil finders: ‘Never break a stone just for the sake of breaking it, someone else may get a good fossil from it.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Clifford to Gene, when the last lot of stone-viewers had gone, ‘I’ll make a label.’ He lifted the groper’s head from its glass case and placed it carefully on an armchair. It stared out the window at the gate, as if hoping for more company. ‘Gene, pencil,’ said Clifford. And glue.’

  Clifford cut a strip of paper from his notebook. ‘TO GO TO GENE STILTON,’ he wrote, and glued it to the stand. ‘There now. It’ll be yours one day, when I’m gone.’ And he lifted the stone head from its comfortable chair and placed it over Gene’s name.

  Gene was scared that night in bed, and thought he could see the head of the groper moving towards him, its stone mouth opening and closing, swallowing the dark. Over the next few days he dreaded coming across the article in the piles of newspaper at the shop. He was glad when they were all gone.

  The Stanley Graham articles, however, were a different matter. He watched out for those. He slid his ruler inside the newspapers, slit them down the fold and put the pages on top of the growing pile, reading constantly. Then he slit another section, and another. By the time he’d finished his hands were black. He picked up stories.

  Ran a trail of blood A desperately wounded man had paused for breath A piece of flesh Women who had been feeding One of their numbers was ‘A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square’ Provided refreshments with stark dread

  To have nine lives Not sleep sound in their beds for a twelvemonth to come if evidence of death A flowering peach tree in the midst

  Etta takes the milk out of the fridge and eyes the meat in there. As she is taking a cup of coffee to Gene she hears water being run upstairs. She frowns. Then she remembers Christina is home.

  ‘Thorsten’s a vegetarian,’ she says. ‘I don’t know what we’ll do with all that meat. I’ll have to freeze it. Unless you want steak for breakfast.’

  Gene has dropped the newspaper again. He is snoring.

  ‘Reckon I could go into business with Stan Graham,’ said Clifford. ‘It says here that he slit some calves’ throats, and shot a bullock for steak. I reckon he’d be useful round the shop. People are crying out for real meat.’

  Violet looked up from her knitting. ‘People are dying, Cliff. People are scared.’

  ‘Listen to Mum. Nothing a good roast wouldn’t fix, eh Gene?’

  He winked at him. Gene didn’t know what to do, so he winked back.

  Across a page of text Stanley Graham took aim at his victims. They were already dead, and so was he now. Last week’s news. Gene piled the papers on the counter. Constable Best was squashed against a recipe for eggless date and nut cake. Mrs Graham lay on top of the prize Ayrshire bullock.

  ‘There it is. Take a good look.’

  Clifford stopped the car, and he and Gene got out. The place had been torched.

  ‘Aren’t you coming, love?’

  ‘I can see it from here. What there is to see.’ Violet poured herself a cup of tea from the thermos.

  Only the foundations and chimney were left. A three-dimensional plan of a house yet to be built, marking out a sleeping area, a cooking area, a bathing area. An area for living. The finer details were missing. Pots, china, rugs, beds. People had come and taken souvenirs, to remind themselves of something. There were no blackened springs, no shards of bone.

  Look what we found, Mum. A melted beer bottle, belonging to Stanley Graham. Great. Makes a nine-hour drive seem worthwhile. The boy can use it as an ashtray when he grows up. Filthy habit. Don’t encourage him. Fine then. Where’s the pub.

  Yellowing words. Stories disintegrating into fifty-year folds. Gene is not sure what he remembers. He wishes he knew where that beer bottle was. Perhaps he’ll have a good look in the garage. Perhaps he’ll take up smoking. Only cigars, though, like Churchill. Christina is picking Thorsten up in the morning. He has some photos of Auschwitz to show them. That’ll be nice. Perhaps Gene will show him his genuine World War II German pistol, or offer him a cigar, or both.

  ‘Do you know,’ says Gene at dinner, ‘that when the Japs heard about Stanley Graham they sent a message to him over their propaganda band saying that if he’d hold the South Island they’d take the North?’

  ‘There you go, Thorsten,’ says Christina. ‘That’s how kiwi blokes go about it. None of this “do you want total war” posturing.’

  ‘Thorsten, perhaps you’d be interested in seeing some of my memorabilia,’ says Gene.

  ‘That sounds fascinating, yes.’

  ‘Don’t get him started,’ mutters Christina.

  ‘I remember that story about the Japanese,’ says Etta.

  ‘People did come up with some odd ideas.’ She
takes Christina’s plate and serves her some peas. ‘Just help yourself, won’t you Thorsten? We want you to feel at home.’

  Christina inspects the potatoes.

  ‘Were these cooked in with the meat, Mum?’

  ‘Well they were in the same dish,’ says Etta. ‘They dry out otherwise.’

  Christina pushes them away.

  ‘Do you want some bread then?’ says Etta, already standing up from the table. ‘I’ve got some lovely fresh bread. Thorsten, a couple of slices?’

  Christina sighs. ‘It’s fine, Mum, sit down.’

  ‘Thorsten?’

  ‘We’re fine, this is wonderful.’

  ‘Any mail for me, Mum?’ says Christina.

  ‘Not really. Some more medical journals. But your father may already have won a yacht.’

  ‘God, they’re not still harassing you are they Dad? I don’t know, you show a teensy bit of interest in Fascism and they never leave you in peace.’

  ‘We got a letter from Bridget the other day,’ says Etta. ‘She sounds like she’s having a lovely time. She said her German’s improved so much.’

  ‘Her wallet was stolen from her room,’ says Gene. ‘Now she locks her door even if she’s just going down the hall to the toilet.’

  ‘I suppose that’s a risk you take in a foreign country,’ says Etta. ‘What do you think of Berlin, Thorsten?’

  ‘It’s not like he’s lived there, Mum.’

  ‘I’ve only been there once,’ says Thorsten. ‘But it seems very interesting, lots of museums and galleries, concerts – ’

  ‘We must get my Chunuk Bair picture up,’ says Gene. ‘Thorsten can give me a hand after dinner.’

  You’re not hanging that morbid thing in the house, are you?’ says Christina.

  ‘Pass your plate, Gene,’ says Etta.

  Gene stands up.

  ‘Gene, your plate?’

  ‘We really must get my picture up,’ he says. He marches out to the hallway and begins tapping on the wall, listening like a doctor for abnormalities.

  ‘Here,’ he calls, stopping between the front door and the dining room. ‘We’ll hang it here. I’ve found a stud.’

  ‘If only it were that easy,’ sighs Christina. Thorsten laughs.

  ‘I’m going to get my hammer,’ Gene calls. ‘It’s in the garage, with the picture.’

  ‘Well,’ says Etta, ‘we might as well start while it’s still hot. You’ll have to excuse Gene, Thorsten. He’s always dashing off at inconvenient moments.’ She unfolds her serviette.

  ‘What’s with Dad?’ whispers Christina.

  ‘Oh you know him, he’s always getting these ideas into his head and then things have to be done straight away.’

  ‘Like moving here, you mean.’

  Etta pats Christina’s hand. ‘You know we couldn’t have stayed in the old place forever. Anyway, it was my idea to move. I just let him think it was his. He wasn’t coping at all with the garden.’

  ‘I think you have a beautiful home, Mrs Stilton,’ says Thorsten. ‘Hardly anyone can afford a proper house in Austria.’

  ‘He’s all right, though, isn’t he,’ says Christina, looking at her plate.

  Etta smooths a crease out of the tablecloth. ‘He’s had a check-up. The doctor told him he should take up a new hobby, something to take his mind off things. Model building, or paint-by-numbers.’

  Christina looks at Thorsten. ‘Well,’ she says, ‘I guess he’s all right then.’

  There is a lot of thumping coming from the garage.

  ‘Maybe I should go and help him,’ says Thorsten.

  Gene is trying to drag a bookcase away from a cupboard. His hands are shaking, and some books have fallen open on the smooth concrete floor.

  ‘Let me help you with that,’ says Thorsten.

  Gene looks up. His face is quite white. ‘I’m fine,’ he says.

  Thorsten picks up the books. ‘You certainly have an interesting library,’ he says, handing him Hitler’s Final Days.

  ‘Yes, it’s a good collection. They were mostly presents.’

  Thorsten grasps the bookcase and edges it away from the cupboard. ‘If we just move it this way a bit – ’

  ‘That’s fine there,’ says Gene. ‘Thanks, I can get it now. You’d better get back to the table. Etta can get quite agitated if she thinks people don’t like her cooking.’

  When Thorsten has gone, Gene sits down on a sawhorse. He can’t seem to stop his hands from shaking. He closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths, and when he looks again the garage is still there, the bookcase is still there, the pheasant he shot when he was twenty-seven is still hanging above the window. Its neck is a little skewed from the time it fell off its hook when Christina slammed the door; a fight with Bridget, he seems to recall, or was it the wind when Christina was out in the garden, and left the door open? His fishing reels will need re-oiling; he’ll have to do that soon, before Christmas if possible. In the corner, his thigh waders seem to be standing up on their own, holding their shape as if someone is inside them. He must go fishing again; it seems like he hasn’t been for a very long time, maybe not even since they moved.

  ‘Gene,’ Etta calls. ‘Shall I put your dinner in the fridge?’

  ‘I’m coming now.’ He shuts the garage door behind him, being careful not to slam it.

  ‘It was a bit harder to get at than I thought,’ he says.

  ‘Are you all right, Dad?’ asks Christina. ‘You don’t look well.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Gene.

  He reaches for the potatoes. His white hands knock the salt and it spills across the white cloth. Gene looks at the others, but they are eating again and seem to have noticed nothing, so he unfolds his white serviette and places it in his lap. Then he takes a pinch of salt, closes his eyes, and throws it over his left shoulder. Into the eyes of the devil, or whoever is behind his back, watching, taking aim.

  The

  sound of

  music

  Christina studies the weave in the man’s jacket: a black and green tweed that is surprisingly complex up close. Two glistening tomato seeds cling to the left lapel.

  ‘You must understand,’ says the man, whose name is Jonathan, ‘that you can’t just throw money at them and expect them to solve their own problems. Speaking as a GP, I believe they have to be taught how to support themselves.’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ says Christina, scanning the garden. She recognises a few faces from the staff room at the hospital, but nobody she can name. The only person she knows is Andrew Martin, the Medical Superintendent whose party it is, and he’s deserted her to tend to the barbecue.

  ‘Welcome welcome,’ he said when she arrived, and pressed a glass of wine into her hand. Then he tied a blue-and-white-striped apron round his waist and moved away, brandishing a pair of long metal tongs, and Christina stood shading her eyes with her hand. She could smell the sun cream evaporating from her own skin.

  Jonathan waves a fly away from Christina’s plate. He says, ‘I mean, it’s all very well for them to get subsidised doctor’s visits and free prescriptions and the rest of it, but if they still live on McDonald’s and beer what’s the point?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘I see the same scenario over and over again,’ he says, ‘as a GP. Tragic.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Call me Jonno,’ says Jonathan. ‘Shall I get you another wine?’

  Christina smiles and hands him her glass. As he walks away she notices a patch of deep sunburn on the back of his neck.

  She slaps at her ankle. Her sandals are new; one of the first things she bought in Sydney.

  ‘You should come and visit,’ she had said to Etta on the phone. ‘You’d love the shops.’

  What she meant was: I miss you.

  ‘I’m too old to be going overseas,’ Etta had said.

  Christina scratches her stomach through her slippery dress – water satin – and promises herself that she will stop drinking for the evening after this
glass. She’ll be working with a lot of these people.

  Over by the barbecue is a woman about the same age as Christina, leaning in very close to Andrew Martin in his blue-and-white-striped apron. The woman keeps waving her hand between their faces in an attempt to brush the smoke away, and is holding a wine glass between two fingers, by its thin stem.

  ‘Here you go,’ says Jonno. ‘I’m afraid it’s a bit warm.’

  Christina takes her glass, which is now covered with greasy fingerprints.

  The woman by the barbecue skewers a sausage and waves it in the direction of Andrew Martin’s crotch. They both screech with laughter. He slops wine on to the barbecue and a hiss of smoke rises.

  ‘I see Claudia is maintaining a consistent level of taste,’ says Jonno.

  The sausage falls off the woman’s fork and lands on the grass. An elderly man, heading for the buffet, steps on it without realising and then begins helping himself to the garlic bread.

  ‘Aaah!’ cries Andrew Martin, waving his arms. He crouches in front of the barbecue so that it looks to Christina as if flames are rising from his head. He examines the sausage, then jumps to his feet. ‘Is there a doctor in the house?’

  ‘I’m a doctor,’ says the garlic bread man, his fingers shiny with melted butter.

  ‘God help us,’ mutters Jonno. ‘Have you met Claudia?’

  ‘I haven’t met anyone,’ says Christina. ‘I’m new here.’

  ‘Ah! Andrew said he’d invited a couple of the new nurses. The pretty ones.’

  ‘Did he.’

  ‘What department are you in, I’ll have to pop in and say hello.’

  ‘O and G.’

  ‘Of course. I’m very fond of babies myself.’ He glances at Christina’s ring finger. ‘Can I get you something more to eat? Some steak perhaps?’

  ‘I’m vegetarian.’

  ‘The shrimps are very good.’ Jonno drains his glass. ‘It’s quite fashionable now, isn’t it. A lot of girls come into my practice saying they’re vegetarian. Most of them are just anorexic.’