Chapter 30

 

 

A sweat-stained Akubra shaded observant, eighty-nine-year-old, blue eyes. Cecil Haliburton worked beneath a prickly sun because he loved his front garden. At it all morning, he’d nearly finished deadheading his roses when a monstrous white car pulled into a bay next to his front fence. He knew Subiaco lacked adequate street parking, but this young prick had managed okay, cutting across the road and parking the wrong way to secure the spot.

When the driver jumped out and waltzed across the footpath towards him, Cecil knew another snoopy journalist had thought himself lucky.

“Cecil Haliburton?” asked Ewen.

“You ever deadheaded roses?”

“Nnnno.”

“Ever smelt a rose?”

“I…guess so. Not for—”

“What’s the bloody world coming to? Stick your snoss in the red one and breathe deep.”

Ewen leant over the low brick fence. He smelt girls.

“Enjoy the smell?”

“Very much so.”

Cecil waved his secateurs. “Everyone running wild forming new religions. Doing pilgrimages to the east. Dissecting the bible and turning it upside down. Meditating. Chanting. Screaming. The saying, stop and smell the roses, well it’s been around for aeons. And do you know why?”

“No.”

“Because it works. The world would be a prettier place if we just stopped and smelt the roses.”

“Ah… Mr Haliburton.”

“Cecil.”

“Nice to meet you, Cecil. My name is Ewen Langtree. I work for the Western Times, an—”

“And you fancy your chances of bagging a neat little story about Francis Hogmyre’s childhood.” His eyes locked onto the journalist. He let go a faint smile. “Only two bushes to go, it’s nearly smoko and I’m a man of habit. So, you do the yellow one. I’ll do the whitie by hand. Then we’ll discuss Francis over a pot of tea.” He opened the gate and handed Ewen his secateurs. He grabbed a wilted flower and snapped it off. “This goddamn weather doesn’t give the weak a chance. Roses are tough, but not tough enough for forty degrees in early December.” From under his brim, he gazed skyward. “And remember to smell ‘em as you tend to ‘em, otherwise what’s the bloody point.”

They worked in silence. By the time Ewen finished, he was amazed at how relaxed he felt. Cecil told him to wash his hands under the garden tap and plonk his arse at the veranda picnic table. The old guy disappeared into the house. Ewen sat in the shade and admired the fifty or so flowering rose bushes in the tiny front yard.

“Grab the bloody door,” sounded from inside the house.

Cecil walked the tea tray along the veranda, and Ewen marvelled at the old boy’s straight spine, how confidently he moved, how brightly his eyes shone. A match for his garden.

It took Cecil two slurps to wet his lips. “Another full sprinkler ban this summer. Can you believe it?”

“Inevitable.”

“Why? Do the bloody Chinese own the water as well?”

The guy was old enough to hate the reds, reasoned Ewen.

“Francis Hogmyre. I rarely discuss him, especially with journalists.” He sipped his tea once more and set the cup down. “But my time is near for this world, and a few loose words won’t hurt.”

Listen, Ewen told himself. Don’t lead. Old man, you’re not dying anytime soon.

“As you can gather, I taught at the orphanage, and Francis, what can I say? A bit shell shocked, as were the other kids. There’s a bridge between orphanage kids and the rest of the world, and the odd plank is always missing. You can sense it. The poor little souls can too. The orphanage moulded them, right or wrong. With Francis, I think…no, I know it was wrong because he grew so damn cagey. The little brat could talk his way out of anything.” Cecil offered his guest a Scotch Finger biscuit. “I remember once how he’d been caught returning by himself from outside the orphanage grounds. A strict no-no. Anyway, a new teacher pinged him. A young, naive teacher. And Francis outfoxed him.”

“What did he do?”

“Do. He talked this teacher into believing he was a prefect and responsible for patrolling the grounds. A quick once round the perimeter to make sure none of the boys were playing up.”

“And the teacher believed him?”

“More than believed him, the teacher saw Francis as a shining light, and idolised the boy. That’s until the other facilitators agreed the prank had gone on long enough and introduced the new teacher to the schematic world of Francis Hogmyre, aged thirteen.”

“You let him draw the teacher along?”

“Such was Francis’s charisma. Anyway, sometimes orphanages breed depression, and a little humour for ourselves didn’t go astray.”

“And his parents?”

“A young single mother unable to look after him.”

“Did he ever contact her?”

“You’d have to ask him. He left the orphanage at sixteen. I never saw him again.”

“Never?”

“Nope.”

Ewen drained his cup and sat back.

“How did you find me?”

“The state orphanages’ data has gone digital. I pressed a few buttons.”

Cecil huffed. “The modern age.”

“People must have asked you Francis questions numerous times before though?”

“On the odd occasion. Reporters contacted different teachers at different times, Francis being such an intriguing topic. Now I’m the last man standing.”

“Two teachers died tragically. One murdered. One suicided.”

“That could’ve had something to do with the orphanage.”

“In what way?”

“Orphanages are tragic places. Tragedy breeds tragedy. Nowadays, orphanages don’t operate in Australia. They’re too tough—on everybody.”

“Francis. You’re painting him as a cagey, seemingly ordinary kid.”

“In a way. But from observing Francis nowadays on the news or through the papers, none of which I gather he enjoys, I realise why I don’t like him.” Cecil added milk to both cups and refilled them. “It’s similar to being conned; the stitched feeling comes later.” He offered another biscuit. “I first sensed it at the orphanage. Something was wrong. The way he eyed other kids occasionally, it just wasn’t healthy. Then years later, on the TV, I saw him display the same gloating look after he successfully launched a takeover bid for a rival company. When I saw the dismay on the rival’s face, a man who had lost a business he’d built from scratch, I finally understood my unease all those years ago.” He sipped his tea. “Did you ever play marbles?”

“Yep.”

“What a surprise in these electronic days. Come recess or lunchtime the children would be hard at it. There weren’t many personal possessions at the orphanage, and marbles, being so cheap, became the game. It also became the catch because that’s all they had. Now, in hindsight, I would have banned it because they didn’t play for tombolas, or cat’s eyes, they played for self-worth. And Francis, he’d win every time and wouldn’t stop playing until he’d plundered all the marbles from all the boys. After a day or so, he’d return them and become the hero, again. But within a week, he’d win them back. The thing was, he wouldn’t even bother to count his hoard. After watching his takeover on the news, I realised he’d enjoyed counting the broken faces of the kids who had lost everything. He was gloating and I didn’t realise it. His spoils encompassed so much more than a pocketful of marbles. The kid possessed a desperate need to plunder self-worth.”

Ewen sat back. “And he never contacted the orphanage again?”

“Not once. He also never donated any money. He could’ve. He did to other orphanages all over the world. Even after the orphanage closed down and was absorbed into Adolescent and Family Services, he could’ve donated in some way.

“Almost as though he wanted to distance himself from his childhood.”

“It seems that way.” Cecil pointed. “The purple rose. My favourite. Pretty isn’t it.”