Higgs walks up to me with a letter. I open it. It is an invitation to attend Margaret Baker’s eighteenth birthday party, with a friend. Why me? Doesn’t she know I have been warned? Of course not. I should take May, that would keep her away from me. But I can’t. I love May, but May will never be my equal, she has said as much. If we married she would always live in my shadow, like Mum lives in Dad’s shadow, like Dame Pattie Menzies in the shadow of Sir Robert, Australia’s longest-serving prime minister. Maybe my love is like the love of a colonialist for his subjects, his wards, his property. I don’t want that. I want an equal, someone I can share my life with, someone to talk to, about anything and everything, about the existence or otherwise of Jesus and the big man, God, about communism, colonialism and capitalism. And I want a Madonna. May isn’t quite a Madonna, or a whore, she’s somewhere in between. Maybe more of a whore than a Madonna. If she had held out, resisted, not let me in so quick, not in her house, or in her body, that might have made a difference.
Margaret’s party is not for May. Margaret is smart, educated, and her party will be full of well educated and sophisticated people, black, white and in-between.
I go alone. Margaret greets me on the veranda with a peck on one cheek. My arms rise instinctively, to hold her, embrace her, but I force them to alter course, my hands to grasp her biceps, squeeze them a little, and my mouth to say: Margaret, thank you for inviting me.
Good of you to come, she says. I know you must be busy, what with maintaining the bank mess kitchen, and balancing all the books.
I smile and allow my lips to brush her cheek. Does she blush? I think I do, but I am saved because another guest arrives.
I go easy on the drink. The party is full of the town’s elite, including the two Byrne brothers, Huxley, Exeter, some very impressive looking native girls and boys, no doubt those who have done time in expensive private schools down south. Hogarth is there too, with his wife, a plain looking woman who barely looks at me when we are introduced. Word is he went to Geelong Grammar’s Timbertop with Prince Charles. It seems everyone is there but the bank johnnies and Jimmy Irish. And Merkel, I don’t see Merkel.
Hogarth sidles up to me.
You see that Byrne brother, he says, the big one?
Yeah.
He killed a Marakin.
A what?
One of the Marakin people, a bloke who worked for him. Hit him with a baseball bat because he said he insulted him. Smashed his skull.
Shit. What happened?
Nothing. All hushed up.
How come you know about it?
Mate of mine was a patrol officer in that district. Everyone knows about it. No one says anything. I think he’ll be leaving though, when independence comes.
Hogarth laughs. I’m not sure why he’s laughing, but I attempt to join him with a small chuckle.
How come he’s here?
He’s a Byrne brother, son of the big man, Arthur Byrne. Right now everyone needs him on their side. And you see that bloke, that’s George Kanluna.
I look where Hogarth is pointing. I see a man with his back to us.
I can’t see him, I say, but I’m hearing about him.
A big man, George, and getting bigger.
Hogarth goes back to his wife. I don’t think she approves of me. Her eyes say: Don’t come near me, you filthy little man.
I understand, but I need to talk to someone, or just stand next to them and not look like a rat in a nursery. I see Exeter standing alone.
Can I buy you a drink? I ask.
He punches me on the arm.
Where’s Felicity?
Not feeling too well, he says. She’s got a tropical ulcer on her leg and the doc thinks she might have malaria.
Tom, no, not one of those legs?
Yeah, I’m not happy. Anyway, she doesn’t like these sort of things much. She thinks they are full of stuck-up snobs.
What about you?
It’s part of my job to stay in touch with important people. I’m finance manager for Byrne Brothers up in the highlands and at something like this you are going to meet a lot of people who are making decisions, or who will be making decisions in the future. And I like free piss.
A waiter walks past.
Better grab another one, says Exeter, before the speeches start.
There is a speech by old Jim Baker, Margaret’s father. He speaks well, of his pride, his hopes for the future and of the love and pride he is sure his deceased wife would feel on such a day. We all sing happy birthday. I have a word with myself because I am drinking faster than I intended. I go for a walk in the extensive, well planned and well attended garden. I take a path that winds its way through tropical plants, including banana trees.
I hear a noise behind me. Is it that thing that keeps following me? Shut up, Jack, there’s no thing. And it isn’t, it’s the opposite of the thing. Margaret Baker. She has found me. I don’t know how. Did she watch me leave and follow? I don’t ask. I am full of joy. We sit on the grass at the edge of the garden.
What will you do when you leave here, Jack? she asks.
What makes you think I’m leaving?
You people always leave.
She has a look in her eyes. I look away so she can’t see the look in mine.
I wish I knew, Margaret. My older brother is a lawyer. I could go into my father’s business, but one thing’s for sure, I won’t last in the bank.
She laughs. I watch her laugh and want to hear it again.
I am the only boy from my year at my old school who works in a bank. My parents are ashamed of me.
Shut up, Jack, I say without a sound. Don’t overdo it. She doesn’t have to lose respect for you. I’m nervous. I fidget. I want vodka, salt, salty vodka. I look at her. She’s beautiful.
Are you religious, Margaret?
Not really. We were brought up Methodist, but that was more about Mum than Dad and he hasn’t pushed it since she passed away. What about you?
Used to be. Sometimes I still talk to Jesus. Not sure why. I liked him, preferred him to his father who seemed to be some sort of big, angry bloke who insisted on killing people who didn’t agree with him.
She laughs again.
Have you thought of studying philosophy? she asks. It won’t help you get a job but you seem to have a natural bent.
Margaret Baker thinks I have a brain? The Madonna thinks I have a brain?
Then something unexpected happens. She leans in towards me, I turn and she kisses me full on the lips. I close my eyes but can still see her dancer’s neck, the soft black skin and I know the rest of her even without seeing it naked, the small but wondrous breasts, the slim tight waist, the eager thighs, the running legs and the feet of an angel. When I reach her feet the slow kiss lingers even longer and the messages to my brain are of such variety that I’m trembling and confused and among them is a sense of almost love that I want to last even though my heart pounds with a need to escape and my nerves jangle because they know that if anyone sees us they won’t bother to call on God to wipe me clean, they will do the job themselves.
Margaret, I say.
Don’t you like me, Jack Muir?
I do Margaret Baker, I like you too much.
There is a sound behind us. I know it’s not my imagination because Margaret hears it too and we both get up quick and walk back to the party, our hands brushing in their swing. Huxley is waiting for me. Or did he arrive just ahead of me?
Jack, he says.
Hux.
You want a lift home?
He knows. I can tell. He wants me out of here.
Okay.
When we get to his Land Cruiser he turns to me and says: If I ever see you in the vicinity of Margaret Baker...
What’s a vicinity, Hux? Can I say hello? Can I walk the same side of a street, use the same public facilities, buy an ice-cream in the same shop? This isn’t Deep South America, you know.
I don’t see it coming. I am not ready for it. His fist slams into my ribs. My wind leaves me. I have no wind. I have no fight. I drop.
I’m sorry, Jack, he says. She’s too good for you, for me, even Tom Exeter. You got it, Jack? There’s a line here.
I mumble, cough, stay down. Should I roll over and stick my feet in the air? Huxley walks away.