One Boy Missing(69)

‘Was he grumpy?’

‘No, practical. That’s how it was in those days.’

‘What was his name? Your dad?’

George smiled at him. ‘You haven’t worked it out yet?’

‘I think…’

‘His name was William, William Moy.’

Patrick turned to face him. ‘William…the photographer’s son?’

‘That’s him.’

‘So…’ He stopped to think about how it might have happened. ‘He never came back for him?’

‘Well, thing is, I never knew until I was about your age. Dad never told me.’ George shrugged at Patrick’s expression of disbelief. ‘Mighta thought I wouldn’t be interested.’

Moy was half-sitting, half-lying back in the shelter, listening to the fugue of old and young voice, the harmony, the poetry. The sky was a half-cloudy, indecisive blue, the breeze not cold, not warm.

‘What happened?’ Patrick asked George.

‘Some time in the late forties, maybe? After the war anyway, one time I was looking through the photo albums and Dad says to me, you know, my father died in Sydney.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Course, I knew very well my grandfather Daniel’d died right there on the farm, so then the whole story comes out.’

There were only two photos of his father, Bill had said, probably it was always like that with photographers. He told George he could remember the sound of his father’s raspy pipe-smoker’s voice and his floppy bowtie, the hair that grew out of his ears and nose.

‘He was looking for his wife in Sydney,’ George told Patrick.

‘What was his name?’

‘Harrison…Harry. Apparently he got in a fight and ended up with a knife between his ribs.’

‘What about Daniel?’ Patrick asked.

‘Well, after losing Elizabeth, he agreed to look after Dad. That’s the sort of man he was…help anyone out.’

‘William stayed with him?’

‘Yes, the day after the photo was taken—the death photo.’ George recalled the memento mori. ‘Harry kissed Dad on the head and said, I’ll be back soon, son, behave yourself, do exactly what Mr Moy says.’

Young William, with blood still dried on his throat.

‘Dad told me he cried for a whole day,’ George said. ‘Harry got back in his cart and drove off and Dad never saw him again.’

Patrick, looking at the grass, seemed to be remembering.

‘Anyway,’ George said, ‘Dad settled in. Elizabeth was buried, a cross was made. Life went on. He learned how to plough and seed and deliver lambs. And that was that.’

Patrick studied George’s face.

‘Until one day,’ George said, ‘this letter came saying what happened in Sydney. Then there were lots of waterworks. Daniel said, we don’t know if this is true, son. But Dad knew. And then the months and years went by. He knew. Something had happened to his father. Maybe his mum had run off with someone, and Harry was after them. Maybe he was the fella that stabbed Harry.’

Patrick stared at George. ‘So what happened then?’

‘Well, Daniel was always a practical man. He said, how about we make this all legal? And Dad said, fine, and then they went to town to see a lawyer, to fill in the adoption papers.’ George was enjoying the story. ‘When I first heard all this I was shocked. Still, it explained a lot of things. Missing photos…different hair colour…’ He squeezed Patrick’s knee. ‘See, that’s Bart’s grandad. A stranger. Someone that somebody met by accident.’

‘And all in one day?’ Patrick asked, seeing both photos—William and Daniel, Elizabeth, Daniel and Helen—but wondering, clearly. ‘And what was his surname?’

‘Who?’

‘Your other grandad. Harry.’

‘William never said.’

‘Why?’

‘Maybe he never thought to.’

‘Why?’

‘Why why?’

‘Why?’ Patrick persisted.

‘Maybe he just wanted to move on.’

And Patrick stared at the jack, thinking, as the first of the bowlers came outside.





37

MOY SAT IN his room and stared into his monitor. Forensic evidence: a bumper bar; a bike that had nothing to do with anything but was photographed anyway; the soccer ball; even his keys, and a beer bottle they’d found in the back of his car.

Megan had asked when he’d drunk it. She’d claimed she could smell it on his breath, which was rubbish. It had been days since he’d had a drink. He could remember her screaming at him. ‘If you’ve been drinking…’ Him yelling back that it was an accident and accidents, by definition, weren’t something you anticipated. How he needed her support now, and she was being a complete and utter bitch. As if it was something he’d meant to do.