He came walking through the rusty grasses and sea-weedish plants that fringe Lake Corangamite. Behind him strode his brother.
He was very fair. His hair was a pale gold and when he scratched his head the parted hairs revealed the pink skin of his scalp. His eyes were very blue. He was freckled. His nose was tipped upward. I liked him tremendously. I judged him to be about four and a half years old and his brother twice that age.
They wore blue overalls and carried them jauntily. The clean wind came across the water and fluttered the material against their legs. Their air was one of independence and release from authority.
They scared the two plovers I had been watching. The birds lifted with startled cries and banked against the wind. They cut across large clouds patched with blue and sped away, flapping low over the water.
The two boys and I exchanged greetings while we looked each other over. I think they liked me. The little one asked me several personal questions. He wanted to know what I was doing there, why I was wearing a green shirt, where was my mother? I gave him the information with the respect due to another seeker of knowledge. I then asked him a question and thus learned of the dangers and disasters that had beset his path.
‘How did you get that cut on your head?’ I asked. In the centre of his forehead a pink scar divided his freckles.
The little boy looked quickly at his brother. The brother answered for him. The little boy expected and conceded this. He looked at the brother expectantly and, as the brother spoke, the little boy’s eyes shone, his lips parted, as one who listens to a thrilling story.
‘He fell off a baby’s chair when he was little,’ said the brother. ‘He hit his head on a shovel and bled over it.’
‘Ye-e-s,’ faltered the little boy, awed by the picture, and in his eyes was excitement and the thrill of danger passed. He looked across the flat water, rapt in the thought of the chair and the shovel and the blood.
‘A cow kicked him once,’ said the brother.
‘A cow!’ I exclaimed.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Go on, Jo,’ said the little boy eagerly, standing before him and looking up into his face.
‘He tried to leg-rope it,’ Jo explained, ‘and the cow let out and got him in the stomach.’
‘In the stomach,’ emphasised the little boy turning quickly to me and nodding his head.
‘Gee!’ I exclaimed.
‘Gee!’ echoed the little boy.
‘It winded him,’ said Jo.
‘I was winded,’ said the little boy slowly as if in doubt. ‘What’s winded, Jo?’
‘He couldn’t breathe properly,’ Jo addressed me.
‘I couldn’t breathe a bit,’ said the little boy.
‘That was bad,’ I said.
‘Yes, it was bad, wasn’t it, Jo?’ said the little boy.
‘Yes,’ said Jo.
Jo looked intently at the little boy as if searching for scars of other conflicts.
‘A ladder fell on him once,’ he said.
The little boy looked quickly at my face to see if I was impressed. The statement had impressed him very much.
‘No,’ said I unbelievingly.
‘Will I show him, Jo?’ asked the little boy eagerly.
‘Yes,’ said Jo.
The little boy, after giving me a quick glance of satisfaction, bent and placed his hands on his knees. Jo lifted the back of his brother’s shirt collar and peered into the warm shadow between his back and the cotton material.
‘You can see it,’ he said uncertainly, searching the white skin for its whereabouts.
The little boy twisted his arm behind his back and strove to touch a spot on one of his shoulders.
‘It’s there, Jo. Can you see it, Jo?’
‘Yes. That’s it,’ said Jo. ‘You come here and see.’ He looked at me. ‘Don’t move, Jimmy.’
‘Jo’s found it,’ announced Jimmy, his head twisted to face me.
I rose from my seat on a pitted rock nestling in grass and stepped over to them. I bent and looked beneath the lifted collar. On the white skin of his shoulder was the smooth ridge of a small scar.
‘Yes. It’s there all right,’ I said. ‘I’ll bet you cried when you got that.’
The little boy turned to Jo. ‘Did I cry, Jo?’
‘A bit,’ said Jo.
‘I never do cry much, do I, Jo?’
‘No,’ said Jo.
‘How did it happen?’ I asked.
‘The ladder had hooks in it . . .’ commenced Jo.
‘Had hooks in it,’ emphasised the little boy nodding at me.
‘And he pulled it down on top of him,’ continued Jo.
‘Oo!’ said the little boy excitedly, clasping his hands and holding them between his knees while he stamped his feet. ‘Oo-o-o.’
‘It knocked him rotten,’ said Jo.
‘I was knocked rotten,’ declared the little boy slowly as if revealing the fact to himself for the first time.
There was a pause while the little boy enjoyed his thoughts.
‘It’s a nice day, isn’t it?’ Jo sought new contacts with me.
‘Yes,’ said I.
The little boy stood in front of his brother, entreating him with his eyes.
‘What else was I in, Jo?’ he pleaded.
Jo pondered, looking at the ground and nibbling his thumb.
‘You was in nothin’ else,’ he said, finally.
‘Aw, Jo!’ The little boy was distressed at the finality of the statement. He bent suddenly and pulled up the leg of his overalls. He searched his bare leg for marks of violence.
‘What’s that, Jo?’ He pointed to a faint mark on his knee.
‘That’s nothin’,’ said Jo. Jo wanted to talk about ferrets. ‘You know, ferrets . . .’ he began.
‘It looks like something,’ I said, looking closely at the mark.
Jo leant forward and examined it. The little boy, clutching the crumpled leg of his trousers, looked from my face to his brother’s and back again, anxiously waiting a decision.
Jo made a closer examination, rubbing the mark with his finger. The little boy followed Jo’s investigation with an expectant attention.
‘You mighta had a burn once. I don’t know.’
‘I wish I did have a burn, Jo,’ said the little boy. It was a plea for a commitment from Jo, but Jo was a stickler for truth.
‘I can’t remember you being burnt,’ he said. ‘Mum’d know.’
‘Perhaps you can think of another exciting thing,’ I suggested.
‘Yes,’ said the little boy eagerly. He came over and took my hand so that we might await together the result of Jo’s cogitation. He looked up at me and said, ‘Isn’t Jo good?’
‘Very good,’ I said.
‘He knows about me and everything.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
There was a faint ‘Hulloo’ from behind us. We all turned. A little girl came running through the rocks in the barrier that guards the lake from the cultivated lands. She had thin legs and wore long, black stockings. One had come loose from its garter and, as she ran, she bent and pulled and strove to push its top beneath the elastic band. Her gait was thus a series of hops and unequal strides.
She called her brothers’ names as she ran and in her voice was the note of the bearer-of-news.
‘Dad must be home,’ said Jo.
But the little boy was resentful of this intrusion. ‘What does she want?’ he said sourly.
The little girl had reached a flat stretch of grass and her speed had increased. Her short hair fluttered in the wind of her running.
She waved a hand. ‘We have a new baby sister,’ she yelled.
‘Aw, pooh!’ exclaimed the little boy.
He turned and tugged at Jo’s arm. ‘Have you thought of anything exciting yet, Jo?’ His face lit to a sudden recollection. ‘Tell him how I got chased by the turkey,’ he cried.