Currawalli Street (26 page)

J
im has fallen for the second toe on Merryn's left foot. That doesn't make sense to him. It doesn't make any sense to her either. Whenever they are lounging together—as they increasingly seem to be able to find time to do—his hand invariably finds its way down her brown thigh, making the tiny blonde hairs stand up, sometimes lingering underneath her knee where the skin is softest, maybe a circle two times around the base of the ankle, jumping over the silver Moroccan chain that sits underneath that ankle and runs along the side of her foot to loop around her toes. As soon as he finds the toe he loves, he feels some tension leave his neck; he suspects that he is leaving the jungle a little further behind each time he holds this toe.

He doesn't tell Merryn any of this because he thinks she might find it too weird.

Today they are lying back on the grass next to the church, under the shadow of the silent soldier. Jim grew up playing around this statue but
never climbing it, understanding without being told the significance of the soldier who stands with the butt of his rifle between his toes, his head bowed.

Merryn allows Jim to play with her toe and absently touches his forehead, sweeping his hair back. She reads aloud the inscription carved into the stone underneath the soldier: ‘dedicated to the men and women from these streets and lanes who fell in the great war, 1914–1918.'

Jim listens as if he has never heard it before, and says wonderingly, ‘I know every name written under that inscription. My friends and I memorised every word without knowing we were doing it.'

‘Tell them to me,' Merryn says.

Jim stops running his finger over her toe and looks at her and then up at the blue sky. She takes her hand from his forehead. She sees Lukewarm coming up the street from number fourteen, carrying three apples and his camera. He told Jim and Merryn he wants to take their photo. She's holding a sprig of the honeysuckle in preparation for being photographed.

Jim finds it hard to link together what his life was before, as a child, and what it is now. In some ways Merryn is a type of conduit. She wants to find out as much of his history as she can. What his favourite toys were, what his mother's voice sounded like, what movie he took his first girlfriend to, when he met Lukewarm, why he keeps on the piano the old photograph of the two people.

For her, to hear him recite something that he memorised as a child is like finding a beautiful shell on the beach. Not that she would tell
Jim that. She could tell Lukewarm, though; he understands things like that.

Jim sits up on one elbow and begins to recite the names. ‘Brady, Albert AIF Gallipoli 1915. Conte, William AIF Belgium 1917. Covey, Alfred AIF France 1916. Cummings, Walter AIF France 1916. Dunold, Eric RN Atlantic 1916. Jones, Cedric AIF France 1916. Lloyd, Morrie AIF France 1918. Tierson, Janet WRAN France 1917. Tierson, Thomas RFC France 1917.'

‘You missed one.'

‘I don't think so.'

‘You did!'

‘Did I?'

‘Yes. Oatley, John AIF France 1918.'

Jim smiles. It's a name he has never forgotten before. ‘My grandfather. Fancy forgetting him.'

Merryn turns to look at him. ‘Hey, that photo on the piano—that's your grandfather, isn't it?'

‘Yep. Oatley, John AIF France 1918.'

‘And the woman is your grandmother?'

‘Yep. Kathleen. The photo was taken around the side of the house.'

‘Your house?'

‘Yep. Currawalli Street.'

Jim smiles, happy that this street is his home.

Always there has been this funny little hill. Always there has been a crooked path of some sort running along its crown. Sometimes it could
not be called a path; sometimes it was just a break in the growth of the tree trunks where the wind had pushed them aside when they were saplings, like the part in a head of hair, for the wind always liked to run up this rise and sail over the crest; and it has always been a place to stop and be still for a moment. Wallabies climbed the gentle slope to reach the top and always looked around, for it was a good place to see if safety was still a companion. Dingoes used the top of this small hill to look back down the track in case there was anything small mistakenly thinking that it was safe to move. Kangaroos looked about from this spot to decide which way to go next; men stood here and looked for where there might be shelter. It isn't a big rise, not really a hill, but the illusion of height is fundamentally important to all animals.

I
wish to thank Lyn Tranter, Stephen De Graaff, Helen Mountfort, Michael Hurwood, Howard Malkin and most of all, Claudia and Greta.