Read Online Beat Not the Bones by Charlotte Jay - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charlotte Jay
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me with your silly regrets. Only fools regret. I regret nothing!â
He did not mean to hurt her. He believed her for the most part incapable of intense feeling and incapable of understanding half of what he said. It relieved his feelings to have someone to lash out at. But looking up into her untroubled face, he yearned momentarily for her calm, uncomplicated view of things. He stood up, went across to her and, sinking down at her feet, buried his head in her lap. Sylvia stroked his head and smiled. She could put up with his tantrums for they nearly always ended in this.
She reminded Washington not of his mother but of his sister, who was ten years older than he was, and had looked after him throughout his childhood and adolescence. She was a plain woman with an unselfish nature and a twisted foot, who lived in Melbourne and made âartisticâ pottery.
It had been his ambition to live with her in a house on the hill among the administrationâs most distinguished servants. Though he despised the successful, he yearned for success and wished to cut a figure in the world. But seven years lived extravagantly on a low salary had seen little advancement of these plans. He had no money to build a house of his own and the government would not provide. Housing was difficult, and the names on priority waiting lists had a way of shifting in favour of high salaries. It was argued by the housing department that he at least had a roof over his head, even if only thatch infested with geckoes and cockroaches, and boards beneath his feet, rotten with white ants as they were. He was one of the fortunate, they informed him. Most of the single men lived in an unspeakably frightful mess and almost went off their heads with noise and discomfort.
But for a few years he had been fairly happy. He loved the tropics and his house, until it began falling to pieces. He had usually two Papuan servants and sometimes as many as five, and had formed friendly and sometimes passionate attachments to all of them. They had kept him poor but had amused him. There had always been the hope of promotion and, with it, a house. Six months ago, these hopes had vanished. The higher position in the department had gone to someone else. His house was falling to pieces. His clothes were patched, the stores were demanding payment. His sister was still making pottery and had stopped asking for further news of housing in her letters. The government obviously could not provide and he certainly could not build. People had found him difficult and decided that he was not, after all, so terribly entertaining. If Washington had been offered a job down south he would have gratefully taken it.
Now, like a frightened puppy, he buried his nose deeper into the folds of Sylviaâs skirt. She stroked his head.
âI canât sleep,â he said, his voice muffled in her dress. âIf I could only sleep. I havenât slept for weeks.â
âYou must take something,â she soothed him.
âPeople prowl around at night. I know they do. I hear them walking around. Somebody came into my house last night.â
âNonsense,â she murmured, stroking his hair.
âI tell you somebody was there,â he insisted. âI was lying with my eyes closed â not asleep, I never sleep these days. It was a native, I could smell him. I could see him.â
âPerhaps it was Rei,â said Sylvia.
âI asked him and he said he hadnât been there. Anyway, do you think I wouldnât recognise Rei?â
âWell, heâd lie about it, wouldnât he? If he felt you were accusing him. Or if heâd been in, sneaking after a cigarette or something.â
â It wasnât Rei! â he almost shouted at her. âPerhaps it was one of those damned Keremas, and up to no good too.â He did not believe that it might have been a Kerema, but this was all he dared to say. Actually, until speaking about it, he had not been
He did not mean to hurt her. He believed her for the most part incapable of intense feeling and incapable of understanding half of what he said. It relieved his feelings to have someone to lash out at. But looking up into her untroubled face, he yearned momentarily for her calm, uncomplicated view of things. He stood up, went across to her and, sinking down at her feet, buried his head in her lap. Sylvia stroked his head and smiled. She could put up with his tantrums for they nearly always ended in this.
She reminded Washington not of his mother but of his sister, who was ten years older than he was, and had looked after him throughout his childhood and adolescence. She was a plain woman with an unselfish nature and a twisted foot, who lived in Melbourne and made âartisticâ pottery.
It had been his ambition to live with her in a house on the hill among the administrationâs most distinguished servants. Though he despised the successful, he yearned for success and wished to cut a figure in the world. But seven years lived extravagantly on a low salary had seen little advancement of these plans. He had no money to build a house of his own and the government would not provide. Housing was difficult, and the names on priority waiting lists had a way of shifting in favour of high salaries. It was argued by the housing department that he at least had a roof over his head, even if only thatch infested with geckoes and cockroaches, and boards beneath his feet, rotten with white ants as they were. He was one of the fortunate, they informed him. Most of the single men lived in an unspeakably frightful mess and almost went off their heads with noise and discomfort.
But for a few years he had been fairly happy. He loved the tropics and his house, until it began falling to pieces. He had usually two Papuan servants and sometimes as many as five, and had formed friendly and sometimes passionate attachments to all of them. They had kept him poor but had amused him. There had always been the hope of promotion and, with it, a house. Six months ago, these hopes had vanished. The higher position in the department had gone to someone else. His house was falling to pieces. His clothes were patched, the stores were demanding payment. His sister was still making pottery and had stopped asking for further news of housing in her letters. The government obviously could not provide and he certainly could not build. People had found him difficult and decided that he was not, after all, so terribly entertaining. If Washington had been offered a job down south he would have gratefully taken it.
Now, like a frightened puppy, he buried his nose deeper into the folds of Sylviaâs skirt. She stroked his head.
âI canât sleep,â he said, his voice muffled in her dress. âIf I could only sleep. I havenât slept for weeks.â
âYou must take something,â she soothed him.
âPeople prowl around at night. I know they do. I hear them walking around. Somebody came into my house last night.â
âNonsense,â she murmured, stroking his hair.
âI tell you somebody was there,â he insisted. âI was lying with my eyes closed â not asleep, I never sleep these days. It was a native, I could smell him. I could see him.â
âPerhaps it was Rei,â said Sylvia.
âI asked him and he said he hadnât been there. Anyway, do you think I wouldnât recognise Rei?â
âWell, heâd lie about it, wouldnât he? If he felt you were accusing him. Or if heâd been in, sneaking after a cigarette or something.â
â It wasnât Rei! â he almost shouted at her. âPerhaps it was one of those damned Keremas, and up to no good too.â He did not believe that it might have been a Kerema, but this was all he dared to say. Actually, until speaking about it, he had not been
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