Fat Man, The Read online

  The Fat Man

  Maurice Gee

  Contents

  1. Chocolate

  2. Sovereigns

  3. Memories or Cash?

  4. Sunday Dinner at Bellevue House

  5. Green Hair

  6. Arm Wrestling

  7. The Fat Man Gets Serious

  8. Flying Fox

  9. Later on …

  For Nicholas and Lewis

  Chapter 1

  Chocolate

  Colin Potter was a hungry boy. His mother said he had a hole in his stomach and one day she’d get a needle and thread and sew it up. ‘Ha, ha,’ he said. She never let a joke go until she had hammered it to death. And her sayings, most of them to do with food, nearly drove him mad. They were like the holey tea-towels she hung on the line to dry and should have been thrown out years ago. ‘Chew your food thirty-two times otherwise your stomach won’t digest it,’ she said. Or: ‘You should wash each swallow down with Adam’s ale.’ Colin wanted cordial and fizz. He wanted cake and biscuits and fresh white bread and strawberry jam.

  ‘Hard food for hard times,’ she said, and gave him a crust with a smear of dripping on it. She sent him to the scullery for some Adam’s ale. ‘And use the same glass, don’t take a new one,’ she said. Fat chance, he thought. They only had four glasses – four old peanut-butter jars – and all of them were dirty already.

  They were hard times. They were hungry times. Colin could remember when his father had a job and brought home two pounds ten a week and they had roasts for dinner, with gravy and baked kumara, and date roll for pudding, and a custard trifle for a treat. Now they had mince stew, and not enough of it, and curly kale, and a spoonful of mashed potato without any butter, and once a week a bread pudding to use up the crusts. Sometimes they had sago. Of all the puddings in the world, he hated sago most.

  He was a skinny boy. As well as being hungry he was greedy, which got him into trouble so bad that he could have ended up in a hole down by the creek. He did end up with a broken arm, but that healed quickly. It took longer for other things to heal – but we must not get ahead of our story, which begins on the day his mother gave him bread and dripping and sent him outside. He ate it, although it was the sort of thing you fed the fowls. There was a bit of meat flavour in the dripping, from Grandma’s roast of beef which they had shared last Sunday. Grandma’s was the only place he got a feed these days – meat and gravy, roast potatoes, jelly and blancmange and a glass of milk. The trouble was it only happened every two or three weeks. When he went into her place after school – along the old verandah where the beer names still glowed on the windows, although Loomis was a dry town now, and down the hall past the staircase and the empty rooms to the kitchen at the back – she might give him a biscuit or a piece of cake. She might send him to the baker’s for the bread and slice him off the kiss-crust when he got back.

  Colin decided to call on her even though it was school holidays.

  He started by way of Flynn’s orchard, where the Gravensteins were still not ripe, and the swamp and creek, but he never got there because he stole a bar of chocolate on the way and Herbert Muskie, who owned it, trapped him and forced him to be an accomplice in his crimes. Herbert Muskie was a burglar, among other things. Ah, those other things – to hear Muskie talk, he had been everywhere and tried everything. But leave him for the moment, we’ll get to Herbert Muskie before long.

  Colin ran through the orchard, keeping an eye peeled for old Flynn with his shotgun, and climbed the fence at the back and ploughed knee-deep through the swamp, round the rushy islands and drowned willows. He followed the rusty creek flowing out of it and slid down the waterfall to the main creek. A track started there, along the bank past the Dally vineyard, where it turned across the swing-bridge into town by the bowling green. Colin meant to go that way and be at his grandma’s in ten minutes – but something made him turn up the creek instead of down. He never worked out what it was. Not his old hut up there, hidden in the gully; he’d left that behind last holidays and it was probably full of wetas now. And not the pool, because he had no togs. Anyway he was too scared of the dark parts of the creek to swim alone.

  His mother said, when it was all over, ‘He had an evil influence, that man. He drew things to him like a magnet,’ and she held Colin by the arm as though Herbert Muskie might still draw him in that way.

  Whatever it was, Colin went up the creek instead of into town. He rock-hopped some of the way and climbed along the bank where the pools were deep. The creek was in a gorge and the world of streets and houses, and paddocks and cows, was on another level, where sunshine poured down and breezes flapped clothes on the washing line. The wind never blew down here at all and the air was still. When he heard dogs bark way off in the distance or heard trains whistle on the railway crossing, he sometimes felt there was no way up from the creek.

  Was it Herbert Muskie’s whistling that drew him to the pool, even though he whistled for himself? Colin heard it, thin and private, before he came round the bend. Then he heard someone blowing through his lips with a rubbery sound. He saw bits of froth drifting on the green slow water. He crept on a little way and put his head round the trunk of a tree and had his first sight of Herbert Muskie, standing waist-deep in the creek.

  He was white with soapsuds. They were pasted down his arms and across his shoulders. Froth blossomed in his armpits and stood like whipped cream on top of his head. He soaped his belly and tried to reach his back. Whatever his other faults, Herbert Muskie was clean. He soaped all the creases in his fat and scraped the suds out with his fingernails.

  Colin lay under the ferns and watched. He saw the man’s behind gleaming like an eel’s belly in the water. He saw him roll and submerge and come up with his head as smooth as an egg and the black hair on his chest pasted down like slime. He squirted creek water from his mouth like a draughthorse peeing, and washed around his ears and dug in them, wiggling his finger. When the soap jumped from his hand he submerged again to pick it up. He put the yellow cake between his teeth, keeping his lips curled to avoid the taste, and swam on his back to the deep part of the pool, where he rolled over like a whale. He was good in the water. He lobbed the soap on to the bank and dived deep and came up with handfuls of creek mud. Floating, he smeared them on his belly and laughed. He could float so well, Colin thought, because he was so fat.

  I’d better get out of here, he thought. He saw the man’s shirt and shoes and trousers on the bank. He did not want to see him come out with nothing on. Turn your eyes the other way, his mother often said. This was one time when he’d obey. Fat blokes were often bad-tempered, probably because of all the weight they carried round, and this one didn’t look as if he’d like being watched, even though he moved in the pool with no weight at all.

  Colin crept backwards through the grass. He looked up the little gully with the ponga ferns in it and saw the roof of his hut – a sheet of iron jutting from the bank, held with struts of four by two his father had let him have. He wondered if the fat man had found it. Was there time to duck in and see? Even if he came out now he would take five minutes getting dressed.

  Colin went quickly, bending low, weaving in and out of the trunks. When he reached the hut he saw that the man had cleaned it out. Ponga leaves were spread on the ground, with a blanket folded over them and a jacket bunched up as a pillow.

  Hey, it’s mine, Colin thought, he can’t come here without asking me. Then he saw a canvas rucksack at the back, where the sheet of iron was wedged into the bank. He shot a glance at the creek, and listened but heard no sound. The ten-past-two train whistled at the crossing by Ah Lap’s. He got down on his knees and crawled over the blanket. The rucksack came out with a tug. It was heavy and made soft clanking sounds. He wondered if there might be m
oney inside. If there was, he could take some for the rent – that would be fair. Sixpence for a night, or maybe a bob. He bared his teeth, half in fright, and turned the rucksack over. The leather straps were soft, the buckles opened with no fuss. A folded shirt lay on top with a pair of woollen socks stuffed in one arm. Colin sniffed them. Clean. And the shirt smelled of soap not sweat and looked as if it had been properly ironed. The man did not seem to be a swagger.

  Colin burrowed deeper. He pulled out a razor strop and a razor in a leather pouch, then a bottle of hair oil with the top screwed tight (Colin tried it) and a comb rubberbanded to its side. Why did he need those when he had no hair? And where was the money?

  He found a wad of newspaper torn into squares for dunny paper. The last thing, at the bottom, was a rolled-up canvas pouch with tools in it – a screwdriver, a chisel, a spanner, a short hammer with a rubber head, and a midget crowbar only six inches long. Colin knew at once they were burglar’s tools and not for a carpenter or plumber. He threw another look at the creek. No sound from there. It was okay to pinch from a burglar, he supposed. There wasn’t any money, but he wouldn’t mind the crowbar. That would be a good souvenir. Or he could take the whole toolkit and give it to Constable Dreaver, and maybe bring him back and help him catch the man. Colin saw the story in the paper, and all the kids at school crowding round him for once, while he told them how he had tripped the fat burglar up while Constable Dreaver got his handcuffs out. But even telling the police where to go would be enough. Then he noticed a pocket on the front of the rucksack and slid his fingers in and brought out a penny cake of Nestlé milk chocolate in its red wrapper and silver paper.

  ‘Ha,’ he said out loud. That was rent. Saliva ran in his mouth, and he tore the wrappers open, folded them back and took a bite. A shiver of delight ran through him at the taste. He hadn’t eaten chocolate for months.

  The train whistled at the station, far away. Up in the open air the tree heads rattled in a breeze. And Herbert Muskie, padding back barefooted from the creek, wearing only his underpants and carrying his shoes and shirt and trousers, stopped at the sight of the boy squatting by his bed with the rucksack open and a cake of chocolate in his hand.

  Herbert Muskie loved chocolate. If anything, he was even fonder of it than Colin was. His impulse was to roar and charge. He controlled it. Herbert Muskie was not an impulsive man. He rarely did anything without thinking about it. Rage was running through him at the theft of his chocolate, but he laid his shoes and shirt and trousers softly on the ground. He stepped towards the boy, three steps, and when he saw his head swing round, showed his teeth in what might be taken for a smile.

  ‘Say your prayers, kid,’ Muskie said, using the voice he had picked up in America.

  Colin screeched. He sounded like a Black Orpington. He kicked with his heels to propel himself away. The half-eaten chocolate bar looped into the ferns. His feet slid on the humus and he went no more than half a yard. He tried to scramble to his feet and run, but the man followed easily. He was round and fat and fast. He was pink and white and quivering, but his hand, coming down on Colin’s foot, closed with the strength of a possum trap. Colin screeched again. He thought his ankle bones were going to break.

  ‘Shut up,’ Herbert Muskie said. ‘And keep still or I’ll belt you.’

  Colin kept still. He had never seen anyone as terrifying as Herbert Muskie – with his bald white head and black hair hanging beside his ears, and his folded chest and creased sides and blown-up belly. Underpants were pulled up over the curve. He had a long pink mouth with flat lips. It seemed pasted on his face and it ran an extra inch on one side because of a scar in the corner. The scar was smoother than the lips and made him seem to smile lop-sidedly, even when he wasn’t amused. His eyes were angry. They were small and deep and blacker than sheep pellets. Herbert Muskie was like something that had rushed into the daylight from the back of a cave and was looking at what it had caught. For a moment Colin believed he was going to be killed. Half-eaten chocolate ran down his chin and dripped on his shirt. Then Herbert Muskie reached behind him. Neat and quick, he plucked the Nestlé bar from the fern bed. He dropped Colin’s foot, but Colin knew that if he moved, the man would wring his neck like a fowl.

  ‘Like chocolate, do you, kid?’ Herbert Muskie asked.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Colin tried to say. He tried to explain that it was rent for the hut but could not get the words out. Creek water oozed in the slanting creases on Herbert Muskie’s sides.

  ‘Well, you’ve had half of it. You’d better eat the rest.’

  ‘No –’

  ‘Waste not, want not, my mother used to say.’

  Colin’s mother said that too, whenever she got the chance. She said it for each crust of bread and scraping of porridge. But the fat man spoke in a way that made Colin want to curl up and hide. He stripped the paper off the chocolate. Colin saw the mark his crooked teeth had made on it.

  ‘I was looking forward to this, kid. This was going to be my pudding tonight.’

  ‘I’m sorry –’

  ‘Now I’ll have nothing. That’s the way it goes, eh?’

  ‘You can – you can have it.’

  ‘Hey, it’s got your germs on. I don’t want ringworm, do I? I’ll just make it nice and tasty for you.’ He brought the chocolate close to his mouth and dropped a gob of spit on it. ‘Okay, kid. There you are. Eat it all up.’

  ‘No –’

  ‘Come on. It’s good for you. No one turns down chocolate.’

  Colin shook his head and tried to back away. ‘Fair dinks,’ he said.

  ‘You don’t want my chocolate now?’

  ‘No,’ Colin whispered.

  ‘I’m sorry but you got no choice.’

  ‘I – I can’t.’

  ‘Sure you can. Open up.’

  ‘No.’

  The fat man sighed. He stood up and put his bare sole on Colin’s ankle, then reached back one-handed to his satchel and found his razor in its leather pouch. He flicked it with his thumb and the blade opened out. ‘Your old man got one of these?’

  Colin could not speak. He tried but a croaking sound came from his mouth. His throat seemed full of bidibids.

  ‘I’ll bet it’s not as sharp as mine,’ Herbert Muskie said. He slanted the hand that held the chocolate and shaved a wad of black hair from his wrist. He grinned at Colin, lifted the razor to his lips and blew the hair away. The gob of spit rolled off the chocolate and ran down its own long thread to the ground. ‘See this,’ Herbert Muskie said. He tapped the scar on his mouth with the back of his razor. ‘I got it from a man I pinched something off. Never argue with someone who’s holding a knife.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So eat up, kid. Be a good boy.’

  Colin ate the chocolate. Most of the spit was gone anyhow. It was like eating charcoal. He swallowed and wiped his lips and wondered if he dared to spit himself. He would have drunk water from the creek or from the swamp, to clean his mouth.

  ‘That wasn’t hard,’ the fat man said.

  ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘No, you can’t.’

  ‘I’m supposed to be at my grandma’s.’

  ‘Tough luck. What’s your name, kid?’

  ‘Colin.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Potter.’

  ‘There’s a Potter owns the pub. The pub with no beer.’

  ‘That’s my grandpa.’

  The fat man blinked. His tongue came out and wet his lips. ‘So your old man’s Laurie Potter? Good with his dooks?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Left hook. Right cross. That Laurie Potter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The man was still for a moment. ‘So who’s your ma?’

  ‘Ma?’

  ‘Your old lady. Some local biddy? Before Laurie Potter married her?’

  ‘She was – Poulter.’

  ‘Maisie Poulter? Good at sums? Top of the class?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘So Pottsie married P
oultice, eh? The tough guy gets the pretty girl. I guess it figures.’ He flicked his razor closed and put it in its pouch.

  ‘Can I go?’ Colin said.

  ‘I said no once, I won’t say it again. You sit there.’ He went back to his clothes and brought them to the hut. He rubbed his creases with the towel and pulled on a singlet and shirt and put one leg in his trousers. Colin saw his chance. He rolled away, once over, like a dog, and jumped to his feet and started running, but knew before he’d taken a step that he wouldn’t make it.

  How could a fat man move so fast? His trousers trailed on one leg as his arm hooked round Colin’s chest and lifted him and spun him. His other hand, fat on its back but hard in the palm, caught the boy smack on the side of his head and sent him cartwheeling away into the four by twos at the end of the hut. Colin lay dazed. One side of his face was numb, then it seemed to blow up like a football. A noise like church bells rang in his ears. He felt as if the side of his head had come unstuck and floated away.

  ‘Dumb kid,’ the fat man said. He lifted his trousers with his toe into the fern bed under the roof, then hooked his finger into the pouch on the front of the rucksack. He brought out a scrap of string and took Colin’s hands and pulled them, one on each side of a timber strut. Then he tied the thumbs together tight. ‘There’s a trick for you, kid. You can hold a grizzly bear with a piece of string. Now quit your snivelling or I’ll belt you again.’

  Colin tried to be quiet. Sobs rose in his throat but he choked them off.

  ‘What’s that you say?’

  ‘Ner – nothing.’

  ‘I don’t like sissy kids.’

  He pulled on his trousers and buckled his belt, which was a dog’s head, and sat down and dried between his toes before putting on his socks and shoes. He tied his laces in a double bow. Then he unscrewed the top from his hair oil, tipped some in his palm and rubbed it in his hair and on the dome of his head until it shone like a basin. He unsnapped his comb and flipped the hair across the top of his head and raked it in neat rows, left to right, down as far as his other ear, which had a piece nicked off the top. Strips of shiny scalp showed through. There was more scalp than hair.