Free The Cartographer by Peter Twohig

turning to go back down when I heard Aunty Queenie, who always spoke as if the other person was in the next suburb, talking to Granddad about Tom and me, Melbourne’s favourite topic of conversation at the moment.
    â€˜I can’t stand to see him like this, Arch. He looks so lonely and sad. It’s breaking my heart.’
    I could tell it was the turps talking, as Aunty Queenie enjoyed a glass or two every five minutes.
    â€˜He’ll get over it. It takes longer with twins, that’s all.’
    â€˜Well I don’t like it. And what’s Jean been doin’ about it? Bugger all — I’m right, aren’t I? I know she’s your daughter, love, but she’s got a real hard streak in ’er —’
    â€˜She got it from the Magees. They were hard bastards. All except Ruthie — and Billy, of course. I still get nervous if I see a Magee coming. They haven’t forgotten, you know. Long memories, the Irish.’
    â€˜Jesus, love, you sound like it happened yesterday, but it must have been thirty years ago.’
    â€˜As far as I’m concerned it did happen yesterday.’
    â€˜You always knew boxing was a mug’s game, Arch, and you’re not a mug. So you were better off out of it.’
    â€˜Yeah. But don’t you worry about the boy. I’ve got my eye on ’im. Anyway, he’s got the Taggerty knack for survival.’
    â€˜Too bad his brother didn’t have it … Oh, I’m sorry, Arch …’
    â€˜No, you’re right, love: Tom never had it. But he wasn’t afraid of anything, that kid. It killed him, though. And every time I see his brother …’
    I left, though if I wasn’t feeling so sad I’d have been tempted to stroll in and say: ‘Hey, Granddad, what did happen thirty years ago? Come on, now, don’t be shy.’ I think Aunty Queenie would have laughed at that, because it was just the sort of thing Tom would’ve done. Still, a kid doesn’t like unanswered questions, even though they are the most common kind.
    When it was time for us to leave, Aunty Queenie put her arm around me and said to me quietly: ‘If anything ever happens toyou, or to Granddad, and you’ve got nowhere to go, just come here.’ It made me wonder what Granddad had been telling her, and I got a fright, but straight after that it made me feel good. None of my real relatives had ever said that to me; I guess they had my number. Still, I made a mental note.
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    The map was to have protected me from wandering back to the Murder House, but it would have been no good to me when I found Old Man Garnet nearly dead. Then, at least, I had been able to carry out my sworn duty as an explorer. I had done what I could; I had turned off the water and gone for help.
    This is what I was thinking as I worked on the map the next day. I added a few streets, and tried to keep them looking okay compared to each other by making my own street the shortest one on the map, and all the others longer and wider or thinner, depending on whether they were roads or lanes. When they were finished, I marked my first journey in blood-red broken lines, and the second in Bedford-green broken lines, in honour of Mr G’s van. I then drew the tannery, the lumber yard, the tramyard and the factories. I was able to make a particularly faithful drawing of Mr Garnet’s Bedford, as there was a picture of one in the paper. On the map I showed the Bedford’s number plate: LL 213 — it always reminded me of Lois Lane. Mr Garnet was hard to draw, because he had had a frightened look on his face. But at least I was spared the pain of drawing a purple face as I’d had to with the woman. That is no way to treat a purple pencil.
    Now it was Saturday again, the last one for the September holidays. So I decided to return to my explorations. I reckoned there wasn’t much chance of me getting involved in anothermurder, so all in all I was