Diamonds in the Mud and Other Stories Read Online Free PDF

wife, buried in the dust bowl the locals named a cemetery.
    Grey mouse of a woman, the pink man thought while water rained down on his sweating form and splashed onto the wall and floor. Silent little mouse who had recreated him, made him whole and perfect in his son, his bright, beautiful boy who had grasped the world by its tail.
    Quickly the water was turned off as memory was turned off. His son was dead. Malcolm Fletcher wished himself dead on that last day of the school year, and he pondered the possibilities of achieving his goal. Digging his grave with a knife and fork was taking too long.
    Naked, dripping, wondering why he bothered to keep up the charade, he plodded to his bedroom to clothe his form in the camouflage garb of headmaster: the dark green trousers, the light green shirt, the flat shapeless shoes. A small green thermos flask in one hand, he slammed his back door with the other then ambled across the playing field to the schoolhouse, arriving as the bell pealed out its call to the tardy and the disinterested.
    He could have bought his students’ approval on that last day, released them early to run from his classroom, some never to return, but Malcolm Fletcher chose not to. He stung with his sarcasm and whipped with his tongue, goading them, driving them, teaching the unteachable.
    Ben Burton had returned to the classroom after lunch with the mute. She sat with her brother in the row of fifth graders, ousting the one-eyed Dooley boy from his seat. It angered the fat man. An invitation to the end of year ‘break-up’ party did not extend to supplying babysitting services in his classroom.
    â€˜Will you take that child into Mrs Macy’s room, Burton, and leave her there,’ he commanded.
    The boy remained seated. ‘Mum said, please sir, can she sit with me this afternoon, please sir,’ Ben replied, his eyes down, studying his shoes, but the mute’s eyes stared relentlessly into her headmaster’s until he was forced to look away.
    Inscrutable eyes, Malcolm thought, black as two smouldering coals. They were defying him to move her from her brother’s side.
    â€˜Mum says she stays, I say she goes. What do you say, Burton?’ he tormented.
    Dark red blood flushed Ben’s already sunburned face and his chin dropped closer to his chest. ‘Can she stay with me, please, sir? She doesn’t know anyone in Mrs Macy’s room.’
    â€˜So be it, Burton. Would you like to take over the position of teacher today? You make the decisions. Shall we finish off the day with arithmetic or do you prefer English? Speak up, Burton, the class is waiting.’ He continued on with his own brand of wit, while studying Jack Burton’s duo.
    The sandy haired boy and the dark girl, diverse as dawn and dusk, yet clothed in the same faded rags, the same canvas shoes and in their pride. They’d rot in this filthy little town.
    His mind wandered back then to a better time, a kinder year. He’d tried to guide the oldest Burton boy, John. He’d offered to coach him to a full scholarship, a passport out of town.
    â€˜Pearls before swine,’ he muttered, and dragged his eyes away from the twin dark coals, allowing his gaze to traverse the almost skeletal frame of her.
    The mark of a whipping was on her thigh, the broken skin already scabbing, but the fat man flinched away from a fact he didn’t wish to know. Knowing meant involvement. He had a permanent appointment with a brandy bottle and no time left over for involvement.
    â€˜School magazines open at page fourteen. Read “The Team”, note the author. I’ll question you on your reading later. Take that as a warning.’
    He waddled back to his table and sank down onto the abused chair, his eyes turning to the eastern window that looked out over the barren schoolyard. Every Australian country school he had seen had this same look of desolation, of earth worn bare of grass by little feet that