The Bookshop of the Broken Hearted Page 16

  Tom braced himself. His wife would say more; he was sure of that.

  Neville, not conceding he’d done any harm, unless ‘little yellow heathens’ had been taken the wrong way, said, ‘Just a way of speaking, Han. Joke.’

  ‘Well, when it comes down to it,’ said Thelma, ‘they’re still human beings, the same as you and me.’

  Thelma spoke as if her words might be happily accepted as the final comment on the subject, for the sake of keeping things cordial.

  ‘Cuppa?’ said Tom. ‘Interest anyone in a cuppa?’

  ‘The Vietnamese, they are the traditional enemies of Australia?’ said Hannah. ‘You have been fighting them for thousands of years? They want to take away your land? Pardon me, I don’t understand.’

  Tom murmured, ‘Dear God.’

  ‘The Russians do,’ said Neville. ‘The Reds. They’re backing the Vietnamese.’

  ‘Oh, the Russians,’ said Hannah.

  Poppy said, ‘Well, that’s enough of politics.’

  The party petered out. The three guests thanked Hannah and Tom for their hospitality, Nev with special enthusiasm since he needed to show that he was not wounded in his pride, which he was. Thelma and Poppy pleaded to be permitted to help with cleaning up, washing up, but Hannah said, ‘No! Are you mad?’

  Alone with the mess, Hannah said, ‘Tom, believe me, I didn’t want to embarrass you. But Vietnam, Tom. The Americans are making a nightmare. Do you see?’

  He didn’t. But maybe he’d listen more closely when his wife came to him with the newspaper in hand while he was clearing the channels in the orchard; came to him to scold the Americans, scorn Gorton. ‘Ai, Tom! What are they doing? Listen to this.’

  What he wanted to say was: ‘Hannah, you did embarrass me. Everything you say embarrasses me. Everything you do. But too bad about that.’

  Too bad, but in a different way, about his present to Peter. A crafted box like Hannah’s, but with crossed fishing rods on the lid. It had been returned in the mail with a note from Pastor Bligh informing Tom that presents were not given at Christmas in Jesus Camp. Pastor Bligh pointed out that Christmas presents from Tom had been returned the previous year. So for future reference, no presents. Yours sincerely.

  Chapter 20

  PETER TOOK off from Jesus Camp again after midnight on the last day of March 1970. He’d been kept in a room by himself since the first time he ran away and Pastor had rigged a makeshift alarm on his door fashioned from tin cans. The idea was that any movement of the door would set the cans rattling. Peter was supposed to keep to his room all night; a chamber pot was provided if he needed to wee. But it was no great feat to thwart Pastor’s alarm if you were patient, and Peter had been patient.

  He had money this time. He’d been pinching coins from the trouser pockets of the men of the congregation while they slept at night. Not from the women; they were more alert to a missing five-cent piece than the men, so Peter had noticed. He’d slip out of his room when everyone was asleep, very late at night, and go from hut to hut in what was known as ‘the dwellings’. Doors were left unlocked in the dwellings as a token of trust. As silently as a spider, he’d creep his way into bedrooms and glide a practised hand into a pocket. The men were all permitted to keep twenty-five dollars per week from the wages they earned at their various occupations out in the region for individual purchases—mostly tobacco, and treats for the children.

  Sixteen families lived at Jesus Camp (a further two hundred lived in their own homes in the broad area of the church’s catchment) so that made for a decent harvest of coins. Peter took only five-cent and ten-cent pieces, coins that would be less noticed in their absence than twenty- and fifty-cent coins.

  He carried a total of four dollars and thirty cents in coins when he left the Jesus Camp compound and hurried over the bridge, heading for the railway station. If a car were to come along while he was crossing the bridge, he’d see its lights in the distance before the driver would see him. And he’d slide under the timber rails and hang down from the planks until the car passed. He’d thought it out.

  He’d also thought out getting himself onto the train, which wouldn’t leave the station until seven in the morning, late enough for Pastor to have missed him. Pastor would drive his Chev to the station and tell the stationmaster to be on the lookout for a boy by himself. But the stationmaster would never see him. He’d sneak into a carriage and hide himself until the train began moving.

  He hid himself at Anderson Station, as he had last time, in the tall grass just beyond the platform. He thought, I’ll see Tom, but I won’t see the lady. I’ll see Tom by himself. I’ll tell him I’ll kill myself if he takes me back to Pastor and Trudy. Bloody well. He felt in his pocket for his paper bag of coins. He didn’t intend to spend his money on train tickets unless he had to; he knew how to hide in the toilet when the conductor came around. But if he was caught, he’d pay. Tom had said it would cost three dollars to go all the way to Spencer Street and then to Cornford. So he might have enough to buy a sandwich at Spencer Street, and a piece of fruit cake. Maybe a bottle of Passiona.

  It would be a long wait for the train. He lay flat on his stomach with his cheek against the grass and thought about Tom. He was worried about him. The lady at the house was old. Peter felt strongly that it would be impossible for Tom to do proper things with a lady who was old. Fishing, things like that. Fixing the engine of the tractor. It was awful for Tom to be with that lady. Peter had entertained over the past two weeks a remedy for Tom’s situation. It had come to him. The lady must go away. Tom would say, ‘Petey’s back now. You have to go away.’

  The only thing was, the people you didn’t like never went away. Trudy and Gran never went away. At Quiet Prayer in the church when people bowed their heads, Peter prayed for Trudy and Gran to go away. And Pastor—Pastor most of all—but when he opened his eyes they were still there.

  Pastor said, ‘What you say to God is a measure of the person you are.’ Peter didn’t know what Pastor meant by that, but he sort of did. Pastor meant secret things. Peter wanted Trudy and Gran and Pastor to die, and that was secret. He didn’t like them. He didn’t like Jesus Camp. He didn’t even like Jesus.

  Trudy said, ‘He rescued me.’ But Jesus didn’t make her happy. All day she was in a bad mood. All day she pulled at her hair and said she wanted it to grow. The women and girls of Jesus Camp were supposed to have their hair cut by Margareta every fortnight. The boys, though, never went to Margareta. Pastor didn’t care about the boys’ hair, he only wanted the girls and the women to have short hair. Trudy said, ‘I’m not going to Margareta,’ and then Judy Susan made her kneel in the big field behind the dwellings and pray for inner peace.

  Judy Susan was Pastor’s wife. Every Sunday at Big Worship, Pastor told the congregation, always more than two hundred, some of them standing under the new extension of plywood at the back, ‘I bless my God for Judy Susan. We all bless Judy Susan, who makes our church glow.’ Judy Susan, at the front of the congregation, close to Pastor, would turn around smiling with her hands clasped under her chin. She was a very pretty woman, much younger than Pastor, and was permitted to wear her silky red hair very long. She was Pastor’s second wife.

  Peter particularly disliked her. Pastor never raised his voice and never hit anyone, but Judy Susan did. She told Peter almost every day, ‘I can see right through you, bad boy.’ She liked to pull his ears and stamp on his toes. If Pastor was nearby, he’d say, ‘Leave the boy. He’s trying his best.’ Which was not true. He was not trying his best. When Judy Susan asked him if he was trying his best, he said, ‘Yes, bloody well.’ Then he’d get a slap.

  He slept for minutes at a time. But he was awake when light came into the sky and the stationmaster started work. He saw Pastor’s Chev pull up. Trudy and Gran were with him, and Judy Susan. Trudy called out, ‘Peter! Wherever you are, come here this minute!’ Peter could see the four of them clearly. Pastor was making motions for Trudy to keep quiet. The four of them stood around t
alking to the stationmaster, Clarrie. They looked up the track, and down.

  Peter smiled. Did they think he’d be standing on the track? Didn’t they know he’d be hiding in the long grass? Didn’t they know that the train would pull up right next to the long grass? Didn’t they know that he’d open one of the doors on the hidden side just before the train started up the track to Nyora and climb in and hide in the toilet? He squirmed on his stomach in delight and sang to himself in his satisfaction, ‘You can’t find Peter, you can’t find Peter, no matter if you look, you can’t find Bad Boy!’

  People were waiting on the platform for the train, not many. A man in a suit and hat carrying a Gladstone bag. A mother with a baby and a little girl. Peter thought he’d get in the carriage they chose. People would think he was with the mother.

  The train arrived with a long screeching of brakes on its down journey. It would go on to three other stations then come back on its way to Nyora. Peter would change at Nyora for the next stage of the trip through Koo-Wee-Rup and Dandenong to Spencer Street. If Tom said he couldn’t stay, he’d live on the train. Instead of killing himself, he’d live on the train. This one and others. He’d go everywhere. He’d pinch food, he’d sleep on the seats. One day when the train was going across a river, he’d jump out and drown himself. Before he jumped out, he’d go everywhere.

  When the train stopped, Pastor and Judy Susan and Trudy and Gran walked along the platform, looking through the windows of the carriages. Six carriages, and they looked in the windows of each. Peter could see what they were doing. The place he’d chosen to hide was on a hump so he could see through the carriages. He laughed because why would he get on the train when it was going the wrong way? It made him feel free and happy to watch Pastor being stupid, and Judy Susan. He sang softly to himself, ‘Bad Boy, Bad Boy, no one can see…’

  A little later, the train returned and stopped for a minute just short of the station. Then came a clanking sound and the train gave a wriggle and moved forward slowly until it was at the platform. Peter watched to see which carriage the lady with the baby and the little girl chose. He left the tall grass and crept along the line of carriages on the far side of the platform, hidden from Pastor. The carriage doors were old-fashioned and they opened with the turn of a brass handle and swung outwards. Peter heard Clarrie call in his shouty way, ‘Service to Nyora! Change at Nyora for Dandenong. Service to Nyora!’ Just as the train began its forward movement, silent at first, Peter leapt up and seized the brass handle. He made the door swing open then held on for dear life until he could struggle his way into the carriage.

  The woman with the baby and little girl peered at him in alarm. Two other passengers, men, came to their feet. Peter sat opposite the lady, the mother, smiling brightly. He said nothing. The little girl stared at him with admiration and deep suspicion out of wide open brown eyes.

  The man in the suit and hat with the Gladstone bag rose in his seat, studied Peter with a smile, then came down the aisle and sat heavily next to him. He placed his bag on his lap, lifted his grey hat to show courtesy to the mother. He was too close, and Peter attempted to make more space between him and the man. But as soon as he’d gained a couple of inches, the man shoved himself over, right up against Peter. His head was too big for his hat, which sat a long way above his ears, as if he were trying to be comical. He was a big man all over. Too big: he looked like he’d been lumped together out of one and a half normal men. His smile, as Peter saw when he stole a quick look at the man’s face, was not a smile, just a strange set of his lips.

  When the man spoke, as he did after a few minutes had passed, his manner was cheerful enough. ‘Off to the big smoke, lad?’

  ‘Lad’ was a term that Pastor used. Peter hated it. He made no reply but only turned his head to look out the window. His instincts told him he was in trouble.

  ‘Travelling light?’

  Peter didn’t know what ‘the big smoke’ was and he didn’t know what ‘travelling light’ meant.

  ‘What’s your name, lad?’

  ‘John,’ said Peter.

  ‘Just John? John who?’

  ‘John Hope.’

  ‘John Hope, is it? Be the right thing to give you me own name, wouldn’t it? That be the right thing?’

  A harsh authority had come into the voice of the man, despite his friendly tone. He appeared to expect approval from the mother, perhaps also from the daughter. Whenever he spoke to Peter, he only addressed the first few words to him before glancing over at the woman in her summer dress.

  ‘Luke Shutter,’ said the man, and he held a soft white hand out to Peter. Reluctant to touch the man, Peter thought it best to accede.

  ‘So,’ said the man, ‘you’re John. John Hope. Not Peter Carson from Pastor Bligh’s camp.’

  Peter blushed. But he shook his head.

  ‘I think you might be. I think you might be little Peter Carson, on the run.’

  Peter shook his head, more emphatically.

  ‘I spoke with the pastor on the platform. Asked me to keep an eye out for a lad about your age by the name of Peter Carson.’

  Peter made a lunge across the man, but was grabbed and pushed back down on his seat.

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ said Luke Shutter. He looked over at the woman, as if sharing his victory. The woman, her baby in her arms, freed one hand to draw her daughter closer. The brown eyes of the daughter grew even larger in wonder. Peter’s right leg was thrust forward after his attempt at escape, touching the knee of the girl. The mother reached out and pushed Peter’s knee away, and as she did, a spasm of revulsion distorted her face.

  ‘Now, young Peter, next station’s Woolamai. You’ll be getting off there. The thing is, how? Nice and quiet? Be best. I’ll tell you what I’ve got in this bag, lad.’ Luke Shutter patted the Gladstone bag on his lap. ‘Handcuffs. Leg irons. You don’t want to be carried off the train in handcuffs and leg irons, do you? Eh? Like a crim from Pentridge, eh? What do you think? Eh?’

  Peter said, ‘No,’ in a voice muffled by humiliation.

  ‘No. Course not.’

  The eyes of the little girl were now fixed on the Gladstone bag.

  =

  Pastor was waiting at Woolamai, and Trudy, Judy Susan, Gran. It must have been their guess that Peter would jump the train at Anderson, somehow. Luke Shutter opened the carriage door and hailed Pastor, who threw back his head and brought his hands together in a loud clap. He strode to the carriage door and took Peter from his captor.

  ‘Mister Shutter. I thank you from the bottom of my heart.’

  ‘No trouble at all, Pastor.’ And Luke Shutter lifted his hat.

  Pastor watched the train depart, raising his hand in response to Luke Shutter’s wave from the open window of the carriage.

  ‘Now,’ said Pastor to Peter, ‘this is no good, lad. This is no good, is it?’

  Trudy had her hand on Peter’s neck. Judy Susan stood on the other side of him, itching to get her fingers on his ears by the looks of her. Gran stood with her arms folded, shaking her head. It seemed likely that she could go on shaking her head for an hour, such was her disappointment.

  Pastor said, ‘In your pocket. What is it?’

  The paper bag of coins made a visible bulge.

  Peter said, ‘An apple.’

  Pastor reached into Peter’s pocket and found the bag of coins.

  ‘What’s this? What’s this?’

  Judy Susan took the bag from Pastor before he could look inside. Her instincts must have told her that what she would find would significantly magnify Peter’s offence to both Pastor and God. And her.

  ‘Money!’ she said, staring down into the open bag. ‘Money!’

  She displayed a ten-cent piece, dropped it back in the bag, then showed a five-cent coin. She shook the bag so that the witnesses of this crime could hear the money in its volume chink and rattle.

  ‘Thief!’ said Judy Susan, and it was clear that theft, in her scheme of things, greatly exceeded in i
ts wickedness hightailing it from Jesus Camp.

  Pastor pushed his hand into his white mane. Trudy covered her gaping mouth, drawing in a deep breath. Gran continued to shake her head in sorrowful rebuke.

  ‘Let’s get him home,’ said Pastor, and clamped his huge hand down on Peter’s shoulder.

  Every so often at Jesus Camp—and this was a shame—some child would require a thrashing. It was uncommon, maybe three or four times in a year. Pastor did not administer the thrashings, and certainly not Judy Susan; Pastor thought it prudent to keep a little distance between his wife and the exercise of her appetites.

  No, it was always Leo Bosk, who’d come to Jesus Camp from the Catholics. Four years as a Christian Brothers boy had taught him what a thrashing looked like. But more than his background commended Leo as a punisher, for there was no malice in him, merely an honest feeling of where his duty lay. And he was a dad himself, four daughters and a son at Jesus Camp, all of the kids models of good behaviour, the rod never spared.

  Thrashings were always supervised by Pastor with an eye to keeping the whole business in hand. Judy Susan was also permitted to look on. And the parents of the child suffering the thrashing—or in Peter’s case, his one parent, Trudy, and his Gran and his Aunty Tilly. Punishment was normally carried out in the recreation room, where at other times the younger children played with plasticine and pipe cleaners and coloured wooden blocks. Pastor and Peter’s family and Judy Susan sat in a semicircle on undersized play chairs, while Leo Bosk sat in a grown-up’s chair with Peter across his lap. Peter’s shorts and underpants had been pulled down to his ankles to leave his behind bare.

  Leo, in a jovial mood, as ever, said to Peter before commencing the thrashing: ‘Well, Pete, it only goes to show—you don’t have to be dead to be stiff. Bad luck to jump into a carriage with Mister Lucas Maynard Shutter. Sells toupees these days, but used to be a copper.’ Without further ado, Leo Bosk brought down his thick leather strap on Peter’s behind.