I left Mr. O’Brien to sort them out and followed Mrs. Ormond and her railing. She was cursing it a blue streak and telling it to get the hell back to where it came from, but it wasn’t paying any attention. It clumped down the road on its six metal legs, making a fair speed and leaving her in its wake. Damn, I thought, damn, I’m going to have to stop and help her. Why didn’t she fix the damn thing securely in the ground?
I ran after the railing and caught it with one hand as it was turning into Fenton Avenue—and Fenton Avenue was so full of writhing inanimate objects I was happy the railing was there to delay me. “Come here, you,” I said, and concentrated on it as best I could. Gradually, the railing’s struggles eased to a few hopeful twitches. I could barely keep it upright, and I was glad when Mrs. Ormond’s strong hands came to join mine.
“Thanks, Pat, you’re a pal. Help me get this back home, and there’s sure to be some cookies and a drink at the end of it.”
I wanted to remind her I wasn’t eight any more, but there was no changing some people. “Give them to Ma for me, would you? I was headed the other way.”
She shook her head. “If you take my advice, you’ll go home and stay there—but there’s no chance of that, I suppose.”
“None at all,” I told her.
By the time we had wrestled the railing back to Mrs. Ormond’s yard, it had given up its dreams of freedom, and it lay down meekly at the foot of Mrs. Ormond’s steps. “Now would you care to fetch Carl Dooley for me, Pat?”
I was already backing away up the street. “I think you’ll find Carl’s got his hands full today,” I told her. “Almond cookies! I’ll be back for them!”
Fenton Avenue was full of irate householders, Harvest Lane likewise, and why in the name of the Lord had she chosen to walk through the market? Fruit and vegetables still counted as alive, but empty crates and wooden trestles evidently didn’t, where she was concerned. There was real anger here, and calls for vengeance. I began to think Mrs. Ormond might have a point, but I hadn’t come this far to give up now. I dodged a box, parried a table, and went on.
It was like walking into a fog. One moment, bustle, cries of alarm, the whicker of wood flying end-over-end; the next, only my footfalls broke the silence.
Then I saw her. The police had encircled her, and all I could see was a glimpse of her tousled hair. Half of them were facing her, half facing outwards, frowns of concentration on their brows. What the police lack in power, they make up for in determination, and nothing was moving on this section of the street that didn’t have legs and a legitimate reason.
The legs they could see, and I was working on the legitimate reason as I walked towards her, no more able to resist than the wrought-iron railing.
Next to a police station is the best location in town, and the shops here sold stuff we’d never be able to afford, and dared to keep it behind glass. I veered away from the cops and pretended to look at some furniture while watching the reflected scene behind me. One of the cops was giving me a mighty fierce glare—that, or he was simply trying to stop the glass from breaking.
They were trying to persuade her to come to the station, and she begged to disagree. One of the cops lost patience and grabbed her arm. I saw his wooden baton waggle its way free from his belt, float up beside him, and tap him smartly on the head.
That did it. The outward-facing cops turned inwards, and in a moment the street came to life. I ducked and rolled as a shower of glass exploded above my head and a procession of heavy chairs, ornate tables, and long couches made for sinning waddled onto the roadway. The cops and their quarry were moving in a tight little group towards the doors of the police station, currently the only safe place in the neighborhood. I ran towards them, ducked between two blue-clad bodies, and found myself face to face with her.
“You! Out of here!”
“Sorry, sir, I was passing, the street went nuts, nearly lost my head, safest place I could find…”
“He was looking in that window just before it blew out!”
“Another one, eh?” An arm descended on my shoulders, and I was hauled inside the building with her. The doors shut behind us and the din ended.
“I’m Patrick,” I said. “Pleased to meet you.”
“No talking, you!”
So I just grinned. She stopped looking worried long enough to grin back.
How can I tell you how lovely she looked at that moment? She was a head shorter than me, blonde-haired—a rare sight indeed in this town—disheveled, careworn. I wanted to wrap her in my warmest coat and take her home for soup and Mrs. Ormond’s almond cookies.
That didn’t appear likely any time soon. We were put in separate but adjoining cells, locked, guarded, inert. When I tried to talk to the guard, he snarled, “Shut up!” For the first time, I felt afraid. “We’ll be out of here soon,” I told her.
“I hope so,” she said. Then she burst into tears.
I reached through the bars to pat her on the shoulder, but the guard growled, “Stop that, you!” I took a hasty step backwards and waited for the tears to stop. In a way, I was pleased she was crying, because it meant I could afford a few sniffles myself.
When she’d calmed a little, she looked at me and said, “Sorry.”
“No need. I’m scared too.”
“I dragged you into all this…”
“No you didn’t! My mother always said curiosity would be the death of me. I had to find out what was causing such an uproar in our street.”
She looked even gloomier. “Did I cause a lot of damage?”
“Anything that was damaged should have been tied down better,” I said gallantly. “But couldn’t you have made your way through town a bit more quietly?”
“I was trying to! I come from the country, and I’m not used to great cities like this. I was all right till I started looking around and thinking how grand everything was—”
Grand? Our neighborhood?
“—and then I noticed things following me, and I got scared and ran, and that made it worse.”
“And the policeman’s baton?”
“They had no cause treating me as a criminal!” The bars of her cage flexed a little.
“Enough talking!” barked the guard.
“How long are you going to hold us here?” I countered. “We have rights, you know.”
“A professor from the College is coming for her. I don’t know about you.”
“Can I get a message to my mother, then? She’ll be worried sick.”
“Should have thought of that earlier.”
“I know I’m allowed one message.”
Pad and pen produced from pocket. “Here. Fifty words maximum.”
I was on my third sheet of paper, still trying to phrase things the right way, when a bustle of officialdom arrived. The man at its center addressed my beloved severely.
“Miss Quigley, I have had to make some very detailed explanations to arrange your release. Substantial reparations have been demanded. In this instance, the value of your unique capacities to our research program has persuaded the Chancellor to pay them in full. Any repetition of this incident will not be tolerated. Captain, if you would be so kind?”
A flourish of keys. She whispered, “Good luck!” as they led her away.
“Hey, what about me?” I called. “I’m the innocent victim of forces I don’t understand!”
College focused on me for a moment. “Then study, young man. You must take responsibility for your own destiny.”
The Captain was holding the door open for him. They had forgotten me before it closed.
Crumple sheet three, start sheet four. “Dear Mother, I know this will come as a shock to you…”
* * * *
They didn’t believe me at first. When I started to bring home books, they said I’d never read them. When they found me asleep over Mundine’s Principles, they woke me and said it was time to cut the firewood—not a job for the absent-minded. When I passed the preliminary entrance test, there might have been a brief mutter of congratulations, but then they went back to the big news of the day: Mrs. Ormond and Carl Dooley were to be married, and the late Mr. Ormond not yet a year in his grave! “There was a power of ironmongery in that house even while Mr. Ormond still drew breath,” said Mother darkly, but my sisters were already picking out their dresses.