On the other side of the street, shadowy figures in the twilight, the two sons and the daughter of a Ukrainian family are gathered round their new letter box, thoughtfully examining the square, wooden container. It is unpainted. In their best clothes, the three children are quietly discussing the box.
Michael suddenly leaves his parents and runs across the dirt street to join his friends. As he nears them he can hear that they are speaking in Ukrainian and he can tell from the manner of their conversation that it is an important one. When Michael stops at the front gate they do not look up at him at first. They are still and concentrating on the letter box. When the oldest of the three children notices Michael, the others turn to him as well, greeting their friend in English.
Michael’s parents have stopped walking and are standing on the opposite side of the street, observing the four children now gathered round the letter box. Rita smiles to herself because with their chins on their hands, and their arms folded, or on their hips, they look like three old men and an old woman. After a moment of silence the eldest looks up to Michael.
‘What do you think?’
Michael is puzzled.
‘About what?’
Of course, the eldest brother smiles, Michael has only just joined their discussion.
‘The letter box,’ he says, ‘What colour should we paint it?’
Michael nods, now understanding the situation. The group is silent again until the eldest brother speaks up once more.
‘Anna,’ he says, pointing to his sister, ‘wants it to be the same colour as the house.’
Michael looks at their square, weatherboard house and nods in agreement. But the eldest brother shakes his head. ‘Gregor,’ he adds, pointing to his younger brother, ‘wants it to be green.’
Michael turns up his face and this time he shakes his head.
‘Well,’ says the younger brother, ‘You think of something.’
All three then turn to Michael. His parents are calling for him to rejoin them, but his three friends are waiting for him to say something. He knows he has to speak, and quickly.
‘Why not red?’
The three stare back at him, momentarily speechless.
‘Red?’, asks the eldest brother.
‘Yes. Why not?’
The three children then turn to each other and begin laughing, clapping their hands, slapping their thighs, and repeating the word ‘red’. His simple suggestion has become an immense, one-word joke. And even though he spoke the word it clearly means something else to the others, and he is suddenly outside the circle of their friendship unable to understand the significance of what he has just said.
‘Why not? he asks, now annoyed with his friends.
When they see his annoyance they stop laughing and the younger brother speaks.
‘It is impossible.’
‘Impossible,’ the elder brother repeats, followed by the sister. ‘The whole street,’ the oldest brother continues, ‘will think we are communists.’
‘Do you want the whole street to think we are communists?’ the sister adds.
‘But why would they?’ Michael asks, confused.
‘Because of the letter box,’ the oldest says, as if it were obvious.
‘Red,’ says the younger brother, ‘stands for communism.’
‘Don’t you know that?’ the sister says.
‘No.’
‘Well, it does.’
‘Oh,’ Michael nods.
‘Do you understand now?’ the oldest asks.
‘Yes,’ Michael nods, ‘I understand.’
‘Good,’ his friend nods, ‘It is important to know.’
Michael’s parents call to him again. Before he goes, to make amends, he suggests another colour.
‘Then why don’t you paint it white like Anna says? Like the house?’
The senior brother nods thoughtfully, like an old man, in his best tie and shirt.
‘White is better, but it’s still difficult. In the old country the Whites were opposed to the Reds.’
‘Oh,’ Michael now nods learnedly.
‘Yes,’ adds the older brother. ‘This is true. Do you believe me?’
‘Yes,’ says Michael. ‘Yes, I do.’
‘There were two sides, the Whites and the Reds. But that was in the old country and our parents don’t want to remember it. And if we paint the letter box white it will only remind them, and we don’t want that. Do you understand?’
Michael nods slowly, half-heartedly, frowning slightly.
‘But your house,’ he says, pointing to the square, weatherboard structure. ‘Your house is white.’
There is a sudden silence, and, horrified, the older brother turns to the house as if seeing it for the first time, and as if a whole new problem has only just occurred to him.
It is at that moment that Michael’s parents call to him again, urgently this time, and Michael leaves the three children, the oldest with his chin resting on his hand, the younger brother with his arms folded, and the sister with her hands by her side. All three have re-assumed the attitudes they had before Michael arrived. All three have returned to silence. Only now, they are contemplating the house.
Michael rejoins his parents and his mother asks what they were talking about. Michael explains and his mother shakes her head slightly, then glances back at the three wise children still studying their house. They are nearing George Bedser’s now and Vic has drifted on a few paces ahead, leaning forward as he walks, as if leaning into a strong wind.
It is a walk that almost defines a generation in itself, for Vic was born at the end of the first war and grew up during the Depression. His hands as he strides up the street to the Englishman’s house are in his pockets, his shoulders are hunched, and his head is lowered. It is a winter walk in summer. Above all, it is a walk that only knows one direction, and that is forward. A walk which assumes that everything left behind is not worth going back to, and everything to the side, anywhere within the range of peripheral vision, is a potential distraction. But it is not a walk that embraces the future. Rather, it is one that reluctantly presses forward, as if there is nothing else to be done, no other way, a walk that always acknowledges in its hunched wariness, the distinct possibility that any one step might mark the return of disaster and misery. One learns to walk like that in difficult times, and once the walk is learnt it is never forgotten.