Читать книгу Sarah Thornhill - Kate Grenville - Страница 15

JACK ALWAYS sang for his supper when he was with us. Carried in wood for the parlour till the box was full, always the one to tend the fire till it blazed up bright. Got out the yard broom, had the verandah and the front steps swept before anyone was up.

That first morning he was back I woke up early. Lay for a moment, then I remembered. Jack’s home! Got dressed and went downstairs where Mrs Devlin was in the kitchen, saw Jack in the yard splitting kindling. The hatchet never missing, the wood falling away clean from the blade. His body moving so smooth and easy, him and the wood and the hatchet like a dance.

Well, it’s Sarah Thornhill, he said. Bright as a bird.

How did I pass those months without him? Now he was here, it felt like I’d been half dead.

Come to stack for me, have you, he said. Just mind them splinters. Them soft fingers of yours.

Our valley was that deep, the sun came into it late. Gold on the hills all round before it reached down to us. A lovely time. That soft light, and knowing the sun would soon shine warm on you. Me and Jack. Nothing said because nothing needed to be.

Then Ma was bustling out from the house.

Jack, leave that, she said. And Dolly, look at you all over splinters!

Happy to do it, Mrs Thornhill, Jack said. You and Mr Thornhill good to me, least I can do.

Well, Jack, she said. Glad you’re not a cadger like some. But we got the boy to do the firewood, rather you left it to him.

All right Mrs Thornhill, he said.

Ma went back into the house. The kitchen door banged behind her.

Why’s she cranky? I said. Always nagging how there’s no kindling.

Won’t be beholden to me, Jack said. Doesn’t want to have to say thank you. Her way of telling me she don’t want me here.

Some of us do, I said. Want you here every minute of every day.

We might of gone on smiling at each other all morning, except for Mrs Devlin calling out the window for Jack to bring her some kindling.

He took an armload in, dropped it in the basket.

Do the knives for you, he said. Mrs Thornhill told me she likes a good sharp knife.

It was true Ma liked a sharp knife, but far as I knew she’d never said so to Jack. Mrs Devlin didn’t argue, got the knives out of the drawer and found the whetstone and the oil. I followed him through the house to the verandah.

Can’t get her one way I’ll get her the other, he said. Want to hear her say it, thank you Jack.

He sat on Pa’s bench, the whetstone on his knee, a bit of rag underneath to save his trousers, dripped the oil on the stone. Picked up one of the knives, an old one with the point broken off.

Wouldn’t cut butter, he said. No one in this house got any idea of putting an edge on a blade.

Smoothed the knife against the stone, turning his hand one way, then the other. That sweet stropping sound.

Pa come out with his pipe and a drink of tea, sat watching.

Your mother fetched that out from London when we come, he said. In her bundle. Little enough we had by then, but you had to have a knife. Got it off a man in End Lane, broken like that when we got it, but your mother said, it’ll see us out, and here it is, on the other side of the world, still good.

Sat watching Jack’s hands, back in End Lane, in that past he never talked about.

I see that knife, I think about the bit broke off, he said. Out there somewhere in this wide world. Nothing ever gone, just you got to know where to look.

He drank down his tea and picked up the telescope, the end of it tracing the shape of his watching. Jack winked at me, turned the wink into the kind of one-eyed squint that was Pa with the telescope. No one but Jack would laugh at Pa, even behind his back.

A boat was sliding up the river. Sail up, man with a blue cap on the stern.

There’s Dick, Pa said. There he goes.

Hundreds of Dicks in the world. Still, I asked.

Dick who, Pa? I said.

Seemed he didn’t hear. The man in the cap leaned on the steering-oar and the boat swung round to where the First Branch joined the river.

Going up to Blackwood’s, Pa said. Away aways up. Ever been up the Branch, Jack?

Watching where the boat had gone, as if it might come back.

Never had reason to, Jack said. Was that Dick Blackwood, Mr Thornhill?

Pa glanced at him, blue eyes like chips of glass.

That’s what they call him, lad, he said. Dick Blackwood.

Gave the name a scornful weight.

What they call him, he said. But not who he is.

Then he was gone, down the steps and out the gate towards the river as if he couldn’t sit still.

Who’s Dick Blackwood? I said.

Lives up the Branch, Jack said. Got a still, cooks up brew. Pa gets it off him. That raw it’ll strip the lining out of your guts.

Got a brother Dick, I said. Wonder is that him.

No one ever looked at me as straight as Jack or listened so well.

Dick Blackwood your brother, he said. Think so?

Mightn’t be, I said. Only, you know, the name.

Jack picked up another knife and stroked the steel against the stone, this way, that way.

Will told me, I said. Some kind of bust-up with Pa, this brother sent off. Name of Dick, see.

Never heard anyone say Dick Blackwood might be a Thornhill, Jack said. Then again, he’s a feller keeps himself to himself.

Thought you’d laugh at me, I said. You know, what a silly idea.

Never that, Sarah Thornhill, he said. Never laugh at you.

Touched his thumb to the blade, laid it with the others.

Only I’d like to know, I said. One way or the other.

Now look, he said. There’s plenty of mights and might-nots in this world. Leave them alone till they come out and bite you. That’s my view, Sarah Thornhill. For what it’s worth.

He gathered the knives, stood up.

We get these back in the drawer, he said. Want to see her face when she does the bacon.

So I let it go. But knew there’d be a chance, one of these days. Find out one way or the other.

We stood innocent as the dawn when Ma started on the bacon. She made the first slice, stopped and looked at the knife, turned with it in her hand.

You done this, Jack, she said. Sharpened this?

Yes, Mrs Thornhill, Jack said.

She cut another slice. The meat fell away from the knife so thin you could see through it.

Well I’ll say this for you, Jack, Ma said. You do know how to put an edge on a blade.

Yes, Mrs Thornhill, Jack said.

Meek as meek, but when she turned away he gave me a grin like a tiger.

~

That afternoon Langlands paid a visit. No one else, and Ma most particular for Will to put on his good new coat. No seven-guinea coat from Deane’s for Jack, just his blue shirt and a bandana at his neck, his black hair combed through with water. But to my eyes, the handsomest man in the world.

I missed my moment to get him beside me on the sofa again, and he went to sit on a chair where Mrs Langland had her shawl. Picked it up to give it to her, somehow got his fingernail caught in it and pulled a thread. My word, the way Mrs Langland carried on. He stood with the bit of fluff in his fingers, head bowed under her scolding. The shame came off him like heat.

That’s ruined now, Sophia said. No putting that right.

Yes there is, Mary said. Give it here, Jack. I’ll have it fixed, never see where I done it.

Mrs Langland wasn’t sure she wanted to trust anyone with her precious kashmir, but Mary took it out of Jack’s hand, picked the thread off where it was caught in his nail, went away to the sewing room. I thought, if she makes it worse, Jack will be the one pays.

But I could see by her bounce when she come back in that she’d fixed it. Mrs Langland looked and Ma looked but blessed if they could see the mend. Sophia took the shawl over to the lamp, pored over every inch.

Think you’ll find it’s as I promised, Mary said. Never see where I done it.

Oh well, Sophia said. I best not try too hard then, had I?

That’s all right then, Pa said. I’ll have another of them scones, Meg, and Jack, you got nothing to eat lad, get yourself one of them cakes going begging. And a fill of your cup.

Mrs Langland started on about her joints again.

Dr Mitchell said I had the loosest joints he’d ever seen, she said. I put my foot down, it’s flat on the floor, I got no arch at all.

Goodness, Ma said. Fancy that now.

Pa took a bite out of his scone so the crumbs rained down on his lap. Ma frowned and shook her head at him. He must of thought she was frowning because when people visited you were supposed to speak up and make yourself pleasant.

Why Sophia, he said, you’re near as tall as me. Course you got your height off your pa. Funny the way a child will favour their Ma or their Pa. See Dolly there. Spit image of her mother, God rest her soul.

Pleased with himself. Thought he’d done well.

Now that’s plain silly, William, Ma said. Sophia’s nothing like as tall as you are. Nothing like. Just the angle, isn’t it, Mrs Langland? And Sophia dear, that’s a lovely way you done your hair today.

Pa got the hint, didn’t say any more. But it made me think. I’d never known I was the spit image of my mother. It meant she was still alive, in a way, in me. Must be the same with everyone, carrying the people that had gone before them, their ma and pa and their grannies and grandpas, all the way back to Adam and Eve.

It made the room interesting, to look at all the faces. Mary took after Pa, easy to see that, the big face with the round cheekbones and the blue eyes not quite the same. Will too, he had Pa’s square chin, the wide mouth. Sophia was like her mother, only not so fat. But there was Jack, side by side with Mr Langland, and there was no likeness whatsoever.

You can see how Jack don’t look like you, Mr Langland, I said. Must favour his mother same as I favour mine.

Soon as I heard the words I wanted them back. Mr Langland’s teacup stopped in mid-air, Pa took his fingers out of his waistcoat pocket, Mrs Langland’s hand went up to her cheek like she’d seen a snake under the table. There was a terrible quiet. Ma put the teapot down as if it was glass. You could hear it click on the table.

Jack had taken a bite of his cake, but when he saw everyone go like statues he went still with it in his mouth. His eyes went to Mr Langland, but Mr Langland was looking nowhere at all.

Twenty years ago Mr Langland had lain with a native woman. That was why Jack was in the world. But who she’d been and how they’d come to lie together was known only to Mr Langland now. No one asked, no one spoke of it. As if that woman had never been. Except that Jack carried her blood in his veins and something of her features in his face.

This tea’s cold as a stone, Ma said. Will you call Anne for a kettle of hot water, William.

So everything got going again, Pa went to the door and called, Mr Langland drank his tea and wiped his lips, Mrs Langland got interested in a fleck of something on her skirt.

Jack was looking down at his knees. To have that moment again and keep my thoughts to myself! The clock chimed out the hour and I hated it because it only went forwards, never back.

When Langlands finally got up to go, Jack and me hung back.

Jack, I whispered. Could cut my tongue out. Saying, you know.

Well, he said. That’s it. Everyone knows, Jack Langland’s mother a darkie. But not a word said. Not ever.

Not your pa? I said.

Pa won’t have it spoke of, Jack said. What he says is, you can pass for Portugee. You can pass, so do it.

Mrs Langland was making heavy weather of the steps outside. I heard Ma calling, Take Mrs Langland’s hand, William! No, the other one, for heaven’s sake! There was the crunch of feet on the gravel and the squeak of the gates.

Truth is, Jack said, be easier in my mind if I knew. Her name, who she was. How she come to be my mother. Did she know me, did I know her, even for a week. All I know is, she was a native woman. And died.

This was a Jack I’d never seen before. Not the cheery Jack we all knew, but a man with a shadow of sadness going along with him through his days.

Even that lad does the firewood, he said. Or that feller Jingles. Never be any more than doing the wood, mucking out the horse shit. But know what name their ma had, where they come from.

You’d be no different if you knew, I said. Still be Jack Langland. What’s it matter?

But I knew it did matter. The peas and the pipe, oranges and lemons, say the bells of St Clement’s. I had those few pictures of my mother that I’d go over and over. Why would I do that if it didn’t matter?

You know them New Zealanders, Jack said, and I thought he wanted to get off this tender ground. The tattoos on their faces. Every one of them lines is a story, you know how to read it. Who’s the feller’s kin. Back through the fathers and grandfathers, all the way back down the line. Who you come from, where you fit. Out there plain on your face. Why they sit through the pain of it.

The gate squeaked, gravel crunched.

William, will you oil that blessed hinge! Ma called.

I see what you’re saying, Jack, I said. Knowing what’s made you.

Put a hand on his arm, the words nowhere near what I wanted them to say, but hoped my touch would tell him.

You’re a good soul, Jack said.

Pulled me to him, put his face in among my hair.

Sharing my troubles with me, he whispered. I thank you for your good heart, Sarah Thornhill.

Then footsteps on the verandah, we got ourselves apart. The feel of his arms round me and his words in my hair stayed with me all the rest of the day. The softness in his eyes when he looked at me, in among the talk of all the others, told me it stayed with him too.