Forest Green, page 6
Because the hobos had occupied the railway roundhouse, the trains now had to be shunted onto the sidings when they weren’t in use. One of the passenger carriages, sitting on its own in a siding, had recently been broken into. Art could see that his father and the townsmen were headed for it. He hung back without being told to do so. He didn’t like this expedition. He wanted to ask his dad if he could take himself home, but he couldn’t spot him in the gang.
The men surrounded the lone carriage on all sides. Mr. Portman hammered on the window with his shovel. He began to shout “Out! Out! Out!” and everyone joined in with the chant. Art could see people inside the carriage, looking through the windows like passengers on their way to Midway. One man had made his bed on the roof; he was sitting up there dressed in what looked like pyjamas, clutching a satchel. Art wondered for a moment if his father and the others were going to set fire to the carriage, like they had the jungle. The shouting and banging grew louder and louder until a hobo opened the rear door of the carriage and stepped out onto its little platform. Despite the warmth of the evening, he was wearing a coat buttoned all the way up to his neck. He raised his arms and Art saw he was holding a shotgun. He pointed his weapon into the crowd below him. The men took a collective step backward and fell silent.
There was a pause. A long pause.
The man fired. Everyone screamed and Art started screaming too, rooted to the spot as everyone else ran here and there, tripping and stumbling and jostling each other. Someone bumped into Art so hard he almost lost his footing. Then he heard a voice shout, “Get him!” and several men surged toward the man with the gun, climbing up onto the carriage. Just when Art thought he might faint from terror, his father emerged from the crowd. He grabbed hold of Art and hugged him close and put his hand across his eyes, but without thinking Art pulled the hand away. That was when he saw a man lying on the ground beside the railway carriage, his face a bloody mess, no longer recognizable, the top of his head blown clear away, a shovel on the ground beside him. Mr. Portman’s shovel.
Where was Mr. Portman? Art looked around at the crowd that was now settling into silence, staring down at the body. Where was Archie’s dad?
And then Art realized. The man lying on the ground in an ever-widening pool of blood was wearing Mr. Portman’s jacket.
Without a word passing between them, Art and his father turned away. Art’s father took hold of his hand and they made their way toward home, walking quickly, the commotion at the roundhouse fading from earshot, neither of them able to speak.
Art went straight to his room and climbed into bed. Every time he closed his eyes, he heard the bang of the gun, that deafening metallic bang. He flinched and shrank beneath his sheet. Bang. He felt like he’d never be able to sleep again. His parents were in the next room, talking. He listened to their voices, their words indistinct. After a while, Art heard his father get up and go out the front door, into the dark street. Bang. He turned over to face the wall and tried his best not to cry.
Later, Peg climbed into his bed. They used to sleep together when they were small, before their father built the bunks, before Eddie was born, and her body was as familiar to him as his own. She handed him her hankie.
“What happened?” she whispered.
He didn’t want to tell her that the jungle was gone. He didn’t want to tell her about Mr. Portman lying dead in the dirt on the ground by the roundhouse. He dried his eyes and blew his nose on Peg’s hankie. And then he whispered the words into the hot heavy darkness of the night.
Peg was frustrated that Art had been allowed to go and she hadn’t, as though things might have gone better if she had. Maybe they would have—maybe Mr. Portman would still be alive. But she hadn’t been there with him. She hadn’t smelled the fires burning, she hadn’t watched the men scrambling to gather their possessions, she hadn’t seen Mr. Portman die. A small piece of him felt glad. Maybe he had protected her for once. Art was the one who’d witnessed it, and this was now his burden, his story, not hers.
* * *
—
When Art went into the kitchen the next morning his father was already awake and dressed in his best—his only—suit.
“I’ll go down to the police station, see what’s needed,” he said to their mother, who was making a meat pie.
“They’ll need to eat,” she said. “She won’t feel like cooking.”
Art realized she was talking about Archie and his mum—that it was the day after, and Archie’s father was still dead, he really was dead and gone.
It was too hot to hang around the house, so as soon as they finished their chores Art and Peg headed off. They walked past the Portman house and Art was almost too afraid to look at it, but when he did, all he saw was Archie’s puppy asleep in the shade on the porch, his leash tied to the banister.
Peg stopped at the edge of the beach, where the melting asphalt met the burning sand.
“Art. Look.”
He turned to where she was pointing and there, beyond the town, above the dark cut of the ravine, was a thin column of black smoke. A narrow column rising steadily, spreading its pall over the valley.
They stood and stared, neither of them speaking.
Just then, Jimmy Tucker ran past, clipping Art’s head sharply with one hand. “Race you!” Art took a breath and chased after him, Peg close on his heels.
Jimmy plunged into the lake toward the floating dock. Art swam hard but Peg overtook him—she was the faster swimmer. Halfway to the dock Art was overwhelmed by tiredness. He abandoned the race and turned over to float on his back. A thin skin of black smoke coated the sky.
He heard Peg shout, “I won!” She was standing on the dock waving her arms above her head in victory. Jimmy climbed up the ladder behind her, dove straight back into the water and swam over to where Art was floating.
“They burnt them out in revenge,” Jimmy said.
“What?”
“Mr. Portman got shot and then the men went out there last night—my dad, your dad too I think—and burnt the jungle down.” Jimmy looked across the water toward the ravine. “I didn’t even know it was there. The hobos got the hell out. The town is safe now.”
Art wasn’t sure what to say. Normally nothing would have stopped him from informing Jimmy that he had it all wrong and that Art had, in fact, been with the grown-ups last night and had seen everything, and as well as all that, he had spent a whole day and part of a night in the jungle, and he knew some of the hobos personally, Mister Theodore and Glen and the old man, and it didn’t seem like such a bad life, camping out in the ravine, beholden to no one, free. But he remembered how hungry the hobos had looked, how hunger came off them in waves. And then he remembered Archie’s father lying on the ground, blood and bone and dirt where he should have had a face.
Art rolled over in the water, onto his front, careful not to look down at whatever was below the surface. Out here the water was black and deep.
* * *
—
Mr. Portman’s funeral took place a few days later. August had turned into September but the weather had grown even hotter, as though the summer was trying to prevent the fall from ever arriving. Art was wearing his Sunday best, the whole family was in their Sunday best, even Eddie. Art’s father had lent Art one of his black hats, which his mother lined with newspaper so it would fit his head. They walked to the church as a unit, Art’s parents and Tilly laden with food for after the service. Art had not seen Archie all week—according to his parents Archie had not left the house since it happened, and the thought of seeing his friend again made him feel nauseated. In fact, he’d been sick that morning, coughing up his guts into a pan, and he’d had a wan hope that this would mean he could stay behind. But no. His mother had helped him get up, given him a glass of water, washed his face with a cool cloth and wiped his limbs as well. She was silent and solemn and tender, and Art felt as though it was his body that was being prepared for burial.
They dropped the food off in the hall and made their way into the church. People nodded in greeting, the adults murmuring in low voices, the organist already playing what Art’s father called “her dismal tunes.” The church was crowded and they squeezed into a pew next to the Tucker family, Art squashed between his mother and Mrs. Tucker, Eddie on his mother’s lap, squirming, Peg up at the other end with Tilly. He’d never been to a funeral and so far it didn’t seem too different from a particularly well-attended Sunday service.
Mrs. Tucker turned to Art with a strange, harsh smile. “I hear this is all down to you and your mischief, Arthur Lunn,” she said, still smiling.
Art felt as though he was going to be sick once again. He wanted to sink down into the pew and vanish.
“Well, Eileen, I think you’ll find that vagrant is to blame.” Art’s mother’s voice rose above the low hum of the congregation. People turned to look.
At that moment the organist paused and the congregation fell silent, and Art felt sure that God was about to strike him dead. But everyone’s attention, including that of his mother and Mrs. Tucker, had moved away from him to the church doors behind them. Art craned his neck to see what was happening. The organist started up again, this time louder and even more dismally, and everyone stood as the minister led the way up the aisle. Six men were carrying what Art realized must be Mr. Portman’s coffin. Art was startled to see his father bringing up the rear, the coffin resting on his shoulder. The bearers were followed by Mrs. Portman, dressed in black with a veil covering her face, and Archie, who looked even paler and skinnier than usual in a brand-new store-bought black suit. Art’s friend stared resolutely at his shiny black shoes as he made his way up the aisle, all the way to the front pew where he took his seat beside his mother.
Art had never been able to understand the minister, with his Scottish accent and his old-fashioned way of speaking, and today he didn’t even try. I hear this is all down to you and your mischief. Mrs. Tucker’s words banged back and forth inside his head. Was that what everyone thought?
And then it dawned on Art: what had happened was his fault. He should never have gone to the jungle, he should never have convinced Peg it was a good idea. Because of him, they’d been kidnapped, they’d had to steal the food, the men of the town had burnt the camp down and the hobos had been made to leave. Because of his…mischief, Archie’s father was dead.
Art lowered his head. He could hear someone nearby sobbing, breath catching in their throat as they tried to keep quiet, and it dawned on him that it was Peg. His mother put her arm around him and tried to pull him closer, but he resisted. He didn’t deserve her embrace.
1942: Rose
IT WAS ROSE’S BIRTHDAY on Saturday but Art knew there was no chance he’d be able to see her that day, which was why he’d made this plan. An hour—a bit longer if he was lucky—at Tilly’s place, him and Rose. Alone. The very thought made him feel victorious and unworthy at the same time.
Most days it was Peg who had the run of Tilly’s after school. It was infuriating how Peg acted like she was special just because she was the only one who had been at the wedding, the only one to have met Duncan Wilson. That didn’t give her exclusive rights when it came to Tilly. At least he’d managed to persuade Peg to let him have Tilly’s place to himself today. He was surprised by how quickly she’d agreed—he hadn’t had to threaten to twist her arm. He’d stopped actually fighting her ages ago, when he realized one day that he was twice her size. Turns out there’s no pleasure in fighting your sister once you can win all the time. Besides, Peg’s fighting days were over, she was a proper lady now, or at least that’s what she wanted people to think. Not someone who roamed the hills looking for hobos. But Art knew better. No matter how seriously she took on the rank of lieutenant to their mother’s major general, a love of adventure was buried deep within her. Art knew it, and he could see it in her. Like an itch she wasn’t allowed to scratch. And so when he told her his plan—Rose’s birthday—she lit up.
Rose was not like other girls. She was graceful and reserved and full of purpose. She had a seriousness to her that Art could tell the other girls found confusing. She didn’t decorate her school notebook with hearts and flowers. She didn’t flutter her eyes. She didn’t talk about wanting to get married and have babies. Her mother was French, from France—as tall and slim and straight-backed as Rose, with the same dark hair—and if you were lucky enough to see them in town running errands together, you might hear them talking to each other in that mysterious language. She was an only child; Rose’s father was lining her up to work for him when she finished school, to help run the orchards he owned as though she was his son, and this was another thing that marked her out, along with the athleticism she possessed from working the land. Rose was impatient to leave childish things behind, and Art felt this was something they shared. He wasn’t a child, he was a man, even if nobody else seemed to realize it.
But getting to see her was not easy. She lived up the lake, far enough that her father drove her into school every morning and picked her up at the end of every day. Her family didn’t come into town much beyond what was necessary; they didn’t even belong to a church, though Art knew Rose’s mother was Catholic. Unlike everyone else he knew, Rose didn’t hang around, she didn’t skate in the park in the winter or sunbathe on the floating dock in summer. But once a week, on Tuesdays, Rose stayed in town after school for her piano lesson. This meant that on Tuesdays there was a window of time before the lesson when Rose was free to do as she liked. And lately, that had meant spending time with Art.
Most of the time, they sat together in the grounds of the school, near the big old oak tree by the fence where there was a bench. When it was too cold or wet or snowy, they’d head for the library, but Art tried to avoid that because once they got there they could no longer talk. She wasn’t his girlfriend, he’d never had a girlfriend, but she wasn’t not his girlfriend either. Art found being near her completely thrilling.
And Rose had agreed to meet him at Tilly’s place today. He’d offered it to her as an alternative last week and, to his surprise, she’d said yes. All Art had to do now was wait for her to show up. He had a birthday present for her—Tilly had helped him buy and wrap it. But he hadn’t exactly told Tilly that he had invited Rose over. He wasn’t sure if Tilly would object—she was as much a romantic as Peg—but he didn’t want to risk it. Besides, Tilly would get home from work just after five, and by then Rose would be at her piano lesson.
Art was fifteen. He felt like he’d been fifteen forever, and would remain fifteen for the rest of time. Stuck at school because his parents wouldn’t allow him to leave—sometimes literally stuck because the desks were so damn small. Stuck in the town where he’d lived all his life, where everyone knew who he was, not because he was good-looking (which he was, of course) and brave and bold but because of something terrible that had happened when he was seven years old. Seven. A long time ago.
He was a worker, a good worker, and he grabbed every chance to prove it. Long summer days with his father and the bridge-and-tunnel crew, pumping the handcar along the track and through the cut to fetch water, sweat in his eyes, his arms straining, crossing the trestles at full speed, through the tunnels, rushing into the darkness and pumping hard toward the light. And in the winter, on the weekends, odd jobs for the company down at the roundhouse. He was a quick learner with a good memory.
At the Portmans’ across the street, he’d taken on much of the work Archie’s father used to do around the yard: digging out Mrs. Portman’s vegetable bed in spring, mowing the lawn in summer, raking the leaves in fall, shovelling snow all winter long. Mrs. Portman kept the store going strong through the Depression and on into the war, and Archie worked there after school and on weekends. It still looked just as good as when Mr. Portman had been in charge, the summer fruit display as lavish and inviting—for tourists—as before. If anything, the business seemed to have grown busier, as though the town wanted—needed—it to stay open. These days, Mrs. Portman was an angry woman at the best of times, forever shrieking at Archie so the whole street could hear. She’d even shout blue murder at him in the store, though as soon as anyone walked through the door she’d stop, give the long counter a polish with her cloth, and smile. As would Archie. Art found it alarming. He avoided the store. But he made sure that when Archie and his mother came home at the end of the day, they didn’t have to worry about the yard work they’d left undone.
Art and Archie. The best of friends. Archie never said he blamed Art for what had happened that day. Except of course he did. He showed it in tiny ways, gestures no one else could see. Last summer he’d jumped off the dock and landed on Art’s back with both feet, pushing him deep under water before Art had a chance to take a breath. And just last week Archie had tripped Art as he’d walked past his desk at school; when Art picked himself up, laughing along with everyone, he’d been startled by the look of malice on Archie’s freckled face. Best of friends. Always.
Although he liked the work, Art already knew that he didn’t want to follow in his father’s footsteps. The problem with working on the railway was that while the trains took you away on Monday, at the end of the week they brought you home again. And then the grass needed clipping. And the snow needed shovelling. And it all repeated itself, over and over again. Art wasn’t interested in playing at keeping house. He wanted more than that.
No sign of Rose yet. Art got up to look at the clock on the mantelpiece—only five minutes had passed since he’d last checked. He stalked over to the window and stared out at the empty street. And back to Tilly’s mantelpiece. Tilly always kept the most recent—almost always brief, often censored—letter from her husband propped up there. “He can’t write more for fear of giving something away to the enemy,” she’d explained. Today there’d been a letter lying on the mat when Art had come in, pushed under the door by Tilly’s landlady, and he’d stepped over it carefully, unwilling to deny his sister the pleasure of spotting it, reaching down to pick it up, her heart soaring.
