‘They had some good ideas, those Nazis,’ Ern said. ‘But they went a bit far.’
‘You should think yourself lucky,’ he told Topsy, after he had asked Harriette not to vist. ‘Some towns...’ he began, but he did not need to go into the details of how Nyoongars were treated, the power of the legislation.
Tommy had hazel eyes, and Ern—who had not seen the boy since he was a baby—looked into them as if they were desert waterholes from which he could drink. ‘My own father had hazel eyes,’ he said, as if assured that his own heritage would continue.
Three of them—mother and children—stayed in the house all day.
It’s true, it’s true I’m sure, thought Ern. You will never know them from white children.
He asked his dear to keep her face powdered when she must go out.
Ern took the children to a photographer. Topsy wore gloves, the powder was thick on her face. She was still very young, very thin, and moved with the precise steps of a bird.
‘Stay in the car,’ said Ern. And he carried the children away.
Flash!
Flash!
Ern thanked the photographer, and returned to where Topsy was waiting.
He handed her the children. ‘I'll be back,’ and walked briskly away.
The photographer looked up, politely querying his customer’s return.
‘I'd like ... that is, I've seen photographs with the colour in them, like a painting. Can you do that?’
‘Certainly sir. I can colour them, subtly, with a brush.’
The photographer showed Ern some examples.
‘You see, said the photographer, ‘the cheeks, the eyes, the hair and clothing. But, I’m afraid. It would be helpful if you could bring the children so that I may take some notes. It’s busy today, and I’ve had several children already. My memory...’
‘The boy has hazel eyes, you would’ve noticed. Their hair is fair. Rather like that.’
Ern pointed at one of the photographs.
‘Rosy cheeks?’ the photographer queried, sizing up the situation.
‘Yes, a lovely effect.’ The photographer complimented Ern’s taste.
‘Lovely children. Very like you in looks, sir, if I may put my opinion. And the clothing, sir?’
‘The boy in blue, of course. The girl, in pink, or perhaps in white, her ribbon was pink.’
The photographs sat proudly upon the small mantelpiece. The children, playing with their warmly laughing mother in the gloomy house, liked to look at them. They wanted to share their father’s excitement. This was who they were, he said. What they had become.
In fact, it was what Ellen remained. In the few weeks since the photographs had arrived she had sickened, and been put to bed. The doctor could not provide a confident diagnosis, and suggested hot and cold baths, various medicines and unguents, compresses and vapours. When she suddenly died he was astounded.
At least, thought Ern, it was not my son, not the boy.
The boy that was saved to beget me. The hazel eyes which I closed for the very last time.