The True Story of Spit MacPhee (10 page)

‘You call me Spit,’ he said threateningly at Betty Arbuckle. ‘That’s my name.’

Betty, surprised at the vehemence, said, ‘All right, dear, if you want me to.’

Somehow, still intact, he followed Betty Arbuckle through the wire door and along a corridor to the back verandah. Spit had left the short pants Sister Campbell had given him in the Dodge, and what broke him now was the pair of Ben Arbuckle’s old short pants that Betty had ready for him on the bed in the wide verandah where, she said, he would be sleeping. There was also a pair of boots on the floor and a pair of darned grey socks on the bed, and when Betty told him to put on the nice pair of clean, dry pants, and the socks and boots, Spit tried grimly but could not prevent the tears that slipped out of his squinted-up eyes and ran down his cheeks. They surprised him and angered him, because he could not remember having cried before. He knew it was a stupid and traitorous mistake for his eyes to do that to him, and in defying them he knew he was never going to put on a pair of Ben Arbuckle’s old pants or boots. He wasn’t going to do it.

Seeing his tears, Betty said, ‘Oh dear,’ but didn’t press him. She was about to suggest a moment’s prayer but she changed her mind about that and said, ‘You don’t have to worry, Spit. You can stay here as long as your grandfather is in hospital. And if he joins the Lord Jesus we’ll make sure you get a proper home. You don’t ever have to worry about that again.’

Knowing that he couldn’t make a run for it, Spit stood silently and defiantly still; but he couldn’t contain himself for long and he said, ‘I’m not putting on any of those pants or boots of Ben’s.’

‘We can think about that tomorrow,’ Betty said firmly.

Spit didn’t argue, but began instead to edge his way out.

‘Now Spit,’ she said to him. ‘Where do you think you’re off to?’

‘I’m going down to the boiler to get my grandfather’s tools. Somebody’ll take them if I leave them there in my cart.’

‘You’re not to go back to that boiler,’ she said to him. ‘And I don’t want you to go anywhere near that river. You won’t need those things of your grandfather’s, so you can leave them there. I want you to promise me not to go near the river ever again.’

Since Spit’s entire recollected life had been spent on what was to him the lifeline and sanctuary of the river, Betty was threatening his heart, his soul, his life and his liberty. Her house was a mile inland from the river, surrounded by other dry houses and other dry streets, and whenever he had been in this part of town his only desire had been to get back to the banks of the Murray as soon as possible.

‘What’s the matter with the river?’ he said to her.

‘It’s best that you begin to forget all about that place where you lived down there. It only made you wild and Godless, like an African heathen. You’ve got to start afresh now, Spit, because soon you’ll be coming to Jesus, and you won’t need to go down to the river again. You can’t live like that any more, and I know you
will
come to Jesus if you don’t ever go anywhere near that place again.’

‘Jesus has got nothing to do with it,’ Spit said indignantly.

Betty Arbuckle had a temper, but because her voice was always soft, the best she could manage in anger was a hurt forbearance. ‘That’s a terrible thing to say,’ she said. ‘Everybody needs Jesus.’

Spit had no argument to that, and she went on, ‘Now go and find Ben. He’s gone to the Co-op to bring home a fourteen-pound bag of potatoes, so you can help him carry them. But don’t you dare go near the river.’

Spit, still mesmerised by Betty Arbuckle’s force and persuasion, walked out of the house on his bare feet and pointed himself aimlessly at the Co-op because he didn’t know what else he could do. He knew he was now living under a threat, because Betty’s plans for his future were so strong that she, more than anyone else, had convinced him that maybe his grandfather would never recover, even though she had not mentioned his grandfather. Moreover, he was very frightened of her forgiveness, because she bore him no grudge for the bucket of water he had thrown over her. And, without knowing why, she made him feel that he had now done something even worse, and ought to be punished for it.

‘She’s a cootie, a damn black cootie,’ he was muttering when he saw Ben Arbuckle coming down the street.

Ben in his boots was hopelessly entangled with the fourteen-pound bag of potatoes. Seeing Spit he dropped them and was ready to make a run for it. But he recovered and stood his ground and tried to look defiant.

‘What are you going to do?’ he said nervously to Spit.

‘Nothing, Ben. Your mother told me to help you carry the potatoes.’

Ben, still suspicious and ready to run, said, ‘She did?’

‘Yes. I’m going to stay at your place. Just until my grandfather gets better.’

‘I know.’

Spit, without plotting it, knew that he needed an ally in Ben because he was about to defy Betty Arbuckle and go down to the river. ‘Why don’t you make yourself a cart to carry things like that?’ he said to Ben, kicking the thick brown paper bag of potatoes.

Ben, hot and sweating, sat on his haunches. ‘You’ve got to have wheels for a cart and I haven’t got any,’ he said.

‘Why don’t you go around the town and ask people if they’ve got any old prams they don’t want,’ Spit said.

‘Ask who?’

‘Anybody. All you do is knock at any old back door and say have you got some old pram wheels.’

‘What’s the use, Spit? I haven’t got any tools anyway, and my father won’t let me touch his.’

‘I’ve got some of my grandfather’s tools down at the old boiler, and if I go and get them I’ll show you how to make a cart.’

Ben, still wary of Spit, while at the same time begging in his boots and smock for toleration and friendship, couldn’t quite believe what he was being offered.

‘Do you mean you’ll help me?’ Ben said.

‘What do you think I mean? I’ll go and get the tools now if you like. D’you want to come?’

Ben now kicked the potatoes. ‘I’ve got to get these home,’ he said, ‘and anyway I’m not allowed to go down to the river, particularly down to your place.’

‘She won’t know. You can give her the potatoes and then duck out quick.’

‘Somebody’ll see us and tell her,’ Ben said.

‘Well, we can say we just happened to be down that way. And I’ll bring up my cart and you can use it any time you like.’

Friendship, co-operation and co-existence – Ben now had the choice of all that, even if it meant dire consequences at home. It was the biggest offer – the best ever made to him in his Sabbatarian life, and he took a quick and desperate hold of it before he could change his mind. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Only you’d better keep out of the way so she doesn’t see us together.’

‘I’ll carry the potatoes, if you like,’ Spit said, and with his stocky, muscular arms and his practised body he lifted the awkward, bulky bag to his shoulder and said to Ben, ‘Is there anywhere I can hide my grandfather’s things?’

‘You mean at home?’

‘Yes. In your back yard somewhere.’

‘Under the house,’ Ben said. ‘Nobody goes there except me, although I’m not supposed to crawl under there because my father’s afraid of fire.’

‘Nobody’ll hear us,’ Spit assured him.

‘All right,’ Ben said with far more courage than he thought he had.

It worked well enough. Spit hovered a few houses away while Ben took over the potatoes, hurried up the path through Betty Arbuckle’s neatly clipped runway of burning bush and, calling out to his mother, ‘Here are the potatoes,’ he dropped them on the two little steps at the back door and joined Spit, who was already on the run when he saw Ben clumping out of the gate in his heavy black boots.

Spit would have kept it up all the way to the river, but Ben was neither a fast nor a willing runner, so they had to walk by the post office, Ben nervously watching everybody in sight and trying to keep a little behind Spit, whispering to him, ‘Watch out, Spit, there’s Mr Thompson.’ Or, ‘There’s Mr Andrews. He’s seen us.’

‘Come on,’ Spit said impatiently, and when they had crossed the railway line and could see the boiler he was surprised to see fragments of burned wood being flung through the broken window.

‘Somebody’s there,’ Ben said.

Spit was already ahead and when he reached the boiler he was not surprised to see Sadie Tree inside it.

‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he said to her.

‘Don’t you want to clean it up?’ she said.

‘Yes, but Sergeant Collins says I’m not allowed to now.’

‘That’s what my father says,’ Sadie told him. ‘But I knew you’d be back.’

‘They’re going to lock me up in Ben’s place,’ Spit said, aware that he was exaggerating, though not by much.

‘What’s
he
doing?’ Sadie said in surprise, pointing to Ben with a fragment of burned-out bed. ‘Won’t he tell his mother?’

‘No, he’s not supposed to be here either. I just came down to get my grandfather’s things. They won’t let me see him if I don’t do what they want. If I don’t stay at the Arbuckles they’ll take him away. So it’s no use cleaning out the boiler, Sadie.’

‘Are they going to send you away to Bendigo?’ Sadie asked.

‘That’s what they keep saying,’ Spit said. ‘But I’m not going down there. I’m not leaving my grandfather.’

‘I found a lot of other things in the ashes,’ Sadie said, ‘and I put them in the buckets.’

‘Can I see inside your boiler?’ Ben asked, waiting outside.

‘You might as well,’ Spit said with a shrug. ‘There’s nothing left anyway.’

Ben, like the others, had always envied Spit his life in the boiler, and now that he was suddenly standing inside it, even in its burned-out condition, he knew that he was enjoying a privilege that Spit would not share with everyone. In fact he was surprised to see Sadie Tree here – and so friendly with Spit. But he didn’t say anything about it. He simply stood and wondered at the difference, at the life that Spit must have lived here and, as a gesture to it, he longed to take his boots off but did not dare do it.

‘We’d better hurry, Spit,’ he said, ‘or we’ll be late for dinner.’

‘Won’t you be coming down here any more?’ Sadie said.

‘I don’t know. Mrs Arbuckle says I’m not allowed to, but I don’t know, Sadie. Does your mother know you’re here?’

‘Yes, but my father’s gone to Nooah.’

‘If I can’t get down here will you look after everything for me?’ Spit asked her.

‘I’ll come down every day,’ Sadie said.

Together they packed Spit’s cart with the box of Fyfe’s tools and what Sadie had found and saved – a silver picture frame, pots, knives and forks, enamel mugs and basins, and a little silver parrot that old Fyfe had kept on his workbench.

‘And this too,’ Sadie said. ‘Look.’ Sadie took from her pinafore pocket a little enamelled and lined box with scissors, a nail file, needle and a thimble in it.

Spit looked at it for a while, never having seen it before. He gave it back to Sadie and said, ‘It must have been my mother’s.’

‘What’ll I do with it?’

‘You’d better keep it for me,’ Spit said.

‘I might lose it.’

‘No you won’t,’ Spit said, and he told Ben to go ahead with the cart. When Ben was on the way up the hill Spit told Sadie about the hiding place under the boiler where he kept his own money.

‘All you have to do is push the side of this piece of metal under the boiler and it drops down,’ he said, demonstrating it for her. It was obviously part of a system that had once had some use in the boiler’s original purpose, but now it was a rare hiding place which the fire had spared. Spit took a little cocoa tin out of the hole and showed Sadie his money, all in coins. ‘Two pounds four and six,’ he said. ‘I was going to buy tyres and a seat with some of it for the bike, but I’ll leave it here now because I don’t know where I can hide it in Ben’s place. But don’t tell anyone … I mean your father.’

‘Don’t worry,’ she said as Ben called out to him: ‘Come on, Spit, or we’ll get into trouble.’

‘See you later, Sadie,’ Spit said as he slammed the little door shut and raced up the slope to help Ben with the cart.

They were more than an hour late for dinner which surprised them both. Frank Arbuckle was at the gate; he had been working in the garden, watching the street. He took out his pocket-watch and said, ‘Where have you been, Ben, and what’s all that?’ He ignored Spit as if he still didn’t know how to deal with him. ‘You’re not bringing that stuff in here,’ he said to Ben.

‘It’s my grandfather’s things,’ Spit said boldly. ‘Somebody would have pinched them if I’d left them down there.’

‘All right. But get inside, both of you,’ Frank Arbuckle said. ‘You’re in trouble. You were told not to go down to the river and you took Ben.’

‘He had to help me,’ Spit said.

‘We didn’t do anything wrong,’ Ben said to his father.

‘Your mother will decide that,’ Frank said sadly. ‘But you’re both in trouble.’

They went inside to the back verandah where the Arbuckles ate their meals, and Ben stood wide-eyed and expectant before his mother while Spit, an alien here, didn’t know what to anticipate.

‘So you went down to the river,’ Mrs Arbuckle said, upset for their wrongdoing rather than their lateness for dinner.

‘I had to get my grandfather’s things,’ Spit said again.

‘And you of all people went with him,’ she said unhappily to Ben.

Ben said nothing, and Spit knew that Ben was almost in tears, though not quite.

‘You’re wicked, both of you. You’ve been tempted. Disobedience is like telling a lie, which is a sin in the eyes of the Lord and you know that, Ben, even if Spit doesn’t.’

Ben said nothing, his wickedness inescapable, his joy in a rare and surprising friendship gone to ruin.

‘And you’re dirty, Ben. Look at you.’

Ben was smeared with black ash, his smock stained, his boots blotted; whereas Spit, used to handling dirt, was clean.

‘You have to be punished, the pair of you, so you can either do without your dinner now, or Frank will give you both a good hiding. Take your pick please.’

Spit had to think about it for a moment. Apart from an occasional strap at school he had never been beaten or slapped by an adult. His grandfather had never touched him because that was not the way they had lived. Though they had always shouted at each other, there had never been any question of obedience or disobedience needing punishment, so there was something here that Spit didn’t like and didn’t want and resented. On the other hand he was very hungry and he said, ‘If he wants to give me a hiding, he can do it any time he likes.’ He looked across at Ben, hoping for some support.