Death of a River Guide by Richard Flanagan

his big flat fingers played with his beer glass, at the thin black hair parted in the middle.
    â€˜You have to understand,’ said Ruth, ‘why we are snobs.’
    â€˜Well, I understand that ,’ said Boy. ‘Some people are cranky and some are bone idle and some are snobs. That’s just how it is.’
    â€˜Maybe,’ said Ruth. ‘Maybe not.’ He paused and leant forward in the overstuffed armchair with the horsehair falling out of the holes in the arms. ‘Look. Did Rose ever talk to you about family? Our family?’
    â€˜Yeah. All the time. Never stopped about what you were doing and how well you were all going.’
    â€˜But did she ever talk about old Grandad Quade?’
    â€˜No, not really. A lot about old woman Quade. But not much about him, no.’
    â€˜He was a convict.’
    â€˜Who?’
    â€˜Ned Quade. Rose’s grandfather.’
    Madonna santa!
    I can see that Boy was shocked and not shocked. And no wonder - so am I. Nobody ever told me this either, and yet, I, like Boy, feel as if I always knew but never suspected a thing, never ever thought but always knew such momentous shame hung over the family.
    Boy’s lips started to move, then stopped. Boy then mumbled a word or two, all the time the furrows in his face dancing up and down as if he were doing some long involved piece of mental arithmetic, adding up so many different things that he had never before recognised as being part of a single grand equation. Realising that he had not said anything proper in reply, Boy grew a little embarrassed and made a small joke to buy a bit more time thinking. He lifted his beer glass and said, ‘Thank God you poured me a whiskey,’ smiled weakly, gulped down some of the whiskey, then finished the glass off with a second, more determined, swallow. And then he was back adding up all the strange evasions, the conceits, the curious pride, the black shames that had been his wife’s nature and his despair, and he arrived at the same solution that Ruth had offered. He checked and rechecked the evidence in his mind, but the addition was its own truth, allowing no other solution. Ruth continued to watch. Boy’s face finally stopped twitching and moved upwards to look once again at Ruth.
    â€˜Why the hell …?’ said Boy, but his voice trailed off, because he did know why the hell, because he did know what it must have meant to her, because he did know how it must have been terrible for her to continually lie to herself and to everyone else, but worse to turn and look at the unspeakable, unnameable shadow, and to give it a name and give tongue to that name in conversation with others. ‘Why the hell didn’t …?’ said Boy, but for a second time his voice trailed away, because he knew fully why, even before Ruth told him.
    â€˜Why would she want you to know? Ain’t no good anybody knowing you got convict blood. Who’s going to respect you? There ain’t nobody respects a crawler’s kith and kin. And respect is everything. Without respect a man is no better than a dog. Who’s going to give you a decent job if you’ve got the taint ?’ The final word came out of Ruth’s throat with a peculiar harshness, as if the word itself carried chains and could be summoned up only with some effort from his guts, as if it flagellated his throat and tongue on its journey to his lips. Ruth sipped his beer glass of whiskey to ease the pain the word gave his mouth.
    â€˜It might not matter much snaring up in the highlands,’ he continued. ‘But it matters everywhere else. And what sort of future your children got if word gets out they got the taint? They’re as good as filth. There’s no future with that sort of past.’
    Now, I’ve never been much interested in history. What’s past is past, that’s been my motto. Get on with now. All this business Ruth is dredging up should be dead and