by Anna Romer
She’d gone off in a huff this morning. Scowling and glaring, fussing over leaving him alone. Stay out of my room, Joe. You hear me? He had sighed with relief when she finally went. And now here he was again – smack bang in the forbidden zone.
Going over to the sewing machine, he tugged open the top cabinet drawer. A ball of tangled bias binding perched on top of a clear box of press studs. Hmm. Nothing too incriminating. What about the bottom drawer. He slid it open a crack, but found only a jumble of tape measures and knots of yarn, pincushions bristling with pins. Pulling the drawer further open, he reached down to burrow under the mess—
He gasped. Thumped his chest. Then clutched at it.
Buckling forward, he gripped both hands on the back of Lil’s sewing chair and tried to breathe through the spasms. Curse his rotten ticker. This was the third angina attack in a fortnight.
He groped in his pocket for the spray. Thumbed off the cap, pumped the mist under his tongue. Then he slumped on the chair, head in hands, waiting for the medication to kick in. Serve him right for snooping. For getting all worked up over what he might find. Once, a long time ago, he’d barged in looking for a needle and thread – an old army habit, darning his own socks – and found Lil sitting ramrod straight in her sewing chair. Her face raw, her eyes glistening and red rimmed.
She was staring down at something in her lap. Joe didn’t see what it was; she’d slipped it beneath her embroidery ring. His first instinct was to comfort her, but as he reached out his hand to give her shoulder a reassuring pat, she turned on him.
Get out . . . get out, you stupid man!
Lord, her eyes.
He shuddered. Once, in New Guinea during the war, he’d stumbled upon a man’s body on the edge of the jungle. Poor bastard had been there for some time, judging by the state of him. Mostly bone, his uniform in tattered fragments. Joe was just a kid, barely eighteen. He’d joined the AIF three years earlier in 1942 after getting a friend’s dad to sign his enlistment form. In that time, he’d seen his share of bodies, but something drew him to this one. He never knew why, his own brain was half-addled by not enough sleep and too much gunfire. So he’d gone over and nudged the corpse, and a huge snake had reared up out of the ribcage, fangs bared as it hissed at Joe, its tiny black eyes ablaze with warning.
Joe shook off the memory.
He should be ashamed, thinking of Lil that way. Likening her to a snake, of all things. Especially when the opposite was true. His dear Lil had given him a decent life, a full life. She was sensible, solid. Within her outer shell of crankiness beat a warm heart. He loved that about her. It grounded him. She was a good woman, and he had no right to doubt her, even in his most private thoughts.
One image of her would be etched forever in his mind: his very first glimpse of her. A girl of sixteen, all long limbs and a mane of thick fair hair. Quietly spoken and wary. Lil had always been a bundle of contradictions. One day she’d be his own pretty girl, all sugar and light. Then – during tougher times, he’d noticed, such as after one of her many miscarriages – she changed. Her face hardened, her voice turned abrasive. Even the way she stood, square-shouldered and stiff, as if daring him to cross her.
And her eyes. As though it wasn’t Lil looking out at him, but a stranger. Someone else, a woman he didn’t recognise. A woman he’d seen from time to time over the years, but had chosen to ignore. Lil had a secret self who sometimes slipped out through a breach in her soul and took charge until the real Lil managed to fight her way back to him.
Joe shut the cabinet. If only she would talk to him more, tell him what troubled her. He had dropped enough hints over the years, but she always clammed up about her past, especially what she’d been through as a kid. She had told him the basics, of course, but there were gaps. Big nasty gaps that made Lil cry out in the night and wake in a cold sweat. Joe wanted to help her, but how could he when she refused to trust him?
Gripping his knees, he rose to his feet and went to the doorway. Pausing, he looked back at the Singer.
‘Whatever it is you’re hiding,’ he whispered, pocketing his little spray bottle, ‘heaven help me, Lil, I’ll figure it out, if it’s the last thing I do.’
• • •
Lil stared through the windscreen, her gaze fixed on the road. But the object on the passenger seat kept creeping into her peripheral vision. Willing her to pick it up, steal a glance inside. Lose a little more of herself to the secrets it contained.
Since the close call with Joe on Saturday, she had started taking the cursed thing along with her wherever she went. Half-hoping to pass a dam or river where she could sink it deep into the mud. Knowing full well that when crunch time came she’d chicken out. She always did.
Slowing the car, she pulled onto the roadside. Cut the motor and sat staring through the windscreen. Monday’s storm lingered, the sky full of greyish clouds. She peered up, willing the rain to hold off. She didn’t like driving in the wet, and especially not with so much on her mind.
She knotted her fingers in her lap and gazed down at them. Why was she trembling? She frowned. They weren’t her hands, surely? Big-knuckled and solid, just as they’d always been, only now the skin was freckled and overrun with wiggly blue veins. It seemed only yesterday that her hands had been smooth and ivory-pale, plump with youth. An eyeblink ago that she’d been a girl of nine, mapping out her life with confident anticipation. She had dreamed of being a singer. A great opera dame like Nellie Melba, or a queen of the Australian theatre like Gladys Moncrieff. Once, music had been her second nature. There had been a time when Lil believed that music would save her. Transport her from her shabby home in the suburbs to the high society of Paris, London, New York.
She sighed. Her plans, her dreams. How had they all gone so wrong?
But she knew how, didn’t she?
Monday, 13th June 1949
‘Frankie,’ he said to me this morning, ‘how long have you and Lilly been here now?’
‘You know exactly how long.’
‘I want to hear you say it.’
‘Why?’
‘I just do.’
We’d eaten breakfast and were sitting in the blue and yellow sunshine of the bright room. Lilly was sulking, I could see her through the doorway, a lump of shadow on the bed. She should be out here, but she’d gotten cross again with Ennis over burning our toast, and had huffed off to cry alone.
Being in the bright room is the reward Ennis gives us for being good. The bright room is long and narrow, with a doorway at one end that leads into our dim little room where we sleep, and another door that goes through to the house and is always locked. The window is the best thing. Showers of coloured sunlight pour in through the big stained-glass panels and paint the walls and floor, and when we stand in the light it paints us too. That’s the most exciting thing about the room, because otherwise there’s just a table and chairs, and a small Warmray firebox. But after being cooped up in our cramped room, it’s heaven.
‘How long?’ Ennis prompted.
‘We’ve been here one year and three months.’
His brows went up. ‘Oh, that long? It’s sped by, hasn’t it?’
I frowned. ‘For you, maybe. Anyway, why do you ask?’
He studied his hands, squinting in that guilty way he has. I knew he had something on his mind. So I prodded him and finally he admitted that he’d read something about me and Lilly in the newspaper.
I begged and begged to see it.
He shook his head. ‘You won’t like it.’
‘Why not?’
A long silence. His hair is down to his shoulders now, he ties it back with a shoelace but strands always escape and cling to his whiskers. He cut off his beard months ago. He’s very good-looking again, the way he was when we met him. Almost like a film star with his dark eyes and sharp cheeks. The stubble growing on his chin spoils the effect, makes him look like a vagrant. He doesn’t shave every day, says it brings a rash.
Like I care.
�
��Please, can I see the story?’
He went very quiet, knotting his fingers under his chin. I knew then I’d pushed too hard. Soon he would mumble his goodbyes and leave.
The days have turned cold, which means he spends more time away from the house, trudging into the bush with his axe. Cutting firewood, loading it in his truck, delivering it to one far-off town or another. We don’t like seeing him drive away, it makes us nervous. We dread getting locked in the room, not knowing when or even if he’ll be back.
‘Are you going out today?’ I said too loudly.
‘Maybe.’
‘What if you don’t come back?’
‘Of course I’ll come back.’
‘But what if something happens to you?’
He took my hand and smiled kindly. ‘Nothing will happen. I’ll never leave you, Frankie. Never.’
I sat very still. I used to cringe from his touch. Not that he was ever cruel. At least, not any more. I couldn’t forget that first time, after we were here a few days and wanted to go home. The rough way he knotted the rope around my wrists. The pushing and shoving to get us up the stairs to our horrible room.
I pulled my hand away and glanced at the doorway.
Our room was in darkness. Lilly was still sulking. She sings to herself sometimes, but mostly she just blubs quietly. She’s too thin, her eyes too big for her face, her hair long and lank, matted with knots. We have a hairbrush each, he bought them specially. But Lilly won’t use hers. The day he presented it to her, she threw it at him and the next day he had a bruise on his cheek. I was scared for her, but he didn’t even get cross.
‘She misses her mum,’ he said.
‘Then why won’t you let us go—’
He glared at me with eyes that seemed to burn, and I couldn’t finish. Sometimes I forget that he’s the enemy.
‘Please let me read the newspaper story.’
‘No.’
‘Will you read it to me, then?’
He reached across the table again for my fingers, but I slid them out of reach. He sighed. ‘It’s not just one story.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve made a scrapbook. All the articles they used to print about you two in the papers. Pictures and everything.’
I started blinking, trying to understand. Me and Lilly in the news? All because we ran away and never went back? What if the papers talked about Mum, mentioned that she missed us? What if they told of how close the police were to finding us? My lips trembled. My hand shot out, my fingers clamped around his wrist.
‘I want to see your scrapbook.’
‘It would be too upsetting.’
I frowned, finally realising what he’d said. Everything they used to print. In the past. I slumped back. A whooshing noise roared in my ears.
‘Why would it be upsetting?’ I almost yelled.
He wrinkled his brow, worked his lips into a frown. ‘Because they’ve given up hope. The cops and . . . everyone. They’re not looking any more, Frankie. They think you’re—’
They think we are dead.
The walls shrank around me, my skin went tight and hot. I couldn’t breathe. I wanted to ask more, to press him for details. Did the paper mention our mum, had she given up hope too? Did Mum believe we were dead? But I couldn’t ask anything because my throat closed up and numbness settled on me.
‘Come on,’ Ennis said, getting to his feet. ‘I’ve got another book for you to read. This time I think you’ll like it.’
Taking my hand, he led me back to our tiny room. I stumbled after him, my legs like wood, my body knotted. Only my brain seemed to be functioning normally, and it was fixed on a single thought.
If the police and all the experts think we are dead, it means we probably soon will be.
10
When the alarm under his pillow shrilled at five o’clock, Tom dragged himself out of bed. Pulled on his track pants and jumper, slid his good foot into his shoe, and moved as quietly as his crutches would allow along the hall to the kitchen. Made himself a pot of Darjeeling and managed to spill only half of it on the trip to his office.
Usually the graveyard shift got his brain working. Being awake while the rest of the world slept triggered his muse. But this morning, as he settled at his desk, the only muse that popped into his mind was her. She was proving to be a distraction. Or rather, her absence was the distraction. In a short span of time, he had grown accustomed to her clattering about in the kitchen, or padding past his office door. The house was somehow lonely without it. Why couldn’t she be an early riser like him?
While his tea brewed, he lugged himself over to the centre of the room and looked up. He estimated he was standing right under her bedroom. He pictured her peacefully snoring, her face obscured by that mane of shadowy hair.
Sliding his weight off one of his crutches, he hoisted it upside down so its rubber foot pointed at the ceiling. Good thing he was tall. Those ceilings were lofty ten footers. He tapped the rubber base against the plaster. It echoed nicely, a faint boom-boom.
He shuffled sideways and repeated the motion, this time a little more loudly, imagining her up there stirring in her cocoon of blankets, frowning into the dark, her dreams interrupted. Little wrinkles forming on her freckly forehead.
Whoa. That last rap on the ceiling had been a little too robust. He stumbled sideways, wincing as his knee took the brunt. Flinging out his arm, he made a wild grab for the bookcase. Stupid. His fingers snatched at thin air, but somehow he stayed on his feet. The extended crutch wasn’t so lucky. It arced across the room and struck his desk. As it fell it clipped the teapot, which upended onto the floor and shattered in a bomb of glazed ceramic.
Tom glared at the puddles of tea gleaming on his polished boards. ‘What a bloody mess.’
Footsteps thundered down the stairs and then along the hall. The door burst open. Abby stuck her head in, her face flushed. She wore jeans and a pink T-shirt teamed with her favourite moss cardigan, and was barefoot. Her hair swam around her like a cloud of chocolate silk.
‘Everything okay?’
‘Hunky dory,’ he growled. ‘Now do you mind letting me get on with it?’
She eyed the fallen crutch, thinned her lips at the broken teapot and its puddle of tea leaves, and then retreated into the hall.
Good. Though he had to admit the room felt empty now that she’d gone. Well that’d teach him to be a dickhead and play childish pranks when he was supposed to be writing.
He nudged the fallen crutch out of the way with his cast. No more distractions. Hadn’t he already wasted enough time obsessing over someone who’d be gone in a day or so, and good riddance?
He sighed. The clock was ticking. His deadline inching closer – it was time to get busy. He’d get this novel written if it killed him. He’d be damned if he would let anyone stand in his way.
He started back across the room, navigating the tealeaf puddles, and had almost reached the desk when his solo crutch slithered from under him. He grabbed his chair, which slowed his fall but didn’t soften it. Much. He hit the floor with a grunt. A grey cloud descended. For a while he swam around in the haze, unwilling to surface. Knowing that when he did, the pain would be horrible. But then, unbidden, his senses came roaring back into focus.
She was by his side, her hands on his ribs as she gazed worriedly into his face, a lock of her hair fallen forward, tickling his jaw. ‘What have you hurt?’
Only his manly pride. What little remained of it. ‘I’m fine. Help me up, would you?’ She extended her hand and he grasped it, easing into a sitting position and then back onto his feet. Abby’s fingers lingered on his arms, her touch butterfly-soft, her brow creased by tiny lines.
‘Thank God you didn’t land on a piece of the teapot.’
He ignored this comment. His quota of indignity for the day – hell, for a bloody lifetime – had already hit the max.
Abby leaned near him, her face a breath away as she peered into his eyes. What was she doing now, checking for
concussion? He opened his mouth to insist that he was fine, but then stopped. He’d never seen her quite this close. The navy rings around her grey irises. The delicate crow’s feet. The tiny freckles dancing on her nose. The wide mouth with its rose-pink lips pressed into a line that seemed too stern for a face like that.
Her fingers settled on his shoulder. ‘Feeling okay, Tom?’
No, he wasn’t. In fact, he was further from okay than he had probably ever been in his life. ‘Yeah, I’m good.’
‘You’re pale. You’ve broken out in a sweat. Where are your painkillers, can I get you some?’
‘Nah, I don’t need any. They mess with my head, I can’t think straight. Can’t write. Thanks, though.’
She gazed about the room, her brow wrinkling. Tucking the stray lock behind her ear, she quirked her mouth to the side, apparently thinking. Then she brightened. ‘Hey, why don’t I set you up on the verandah? It’s nice out there, the sun rising, a view over the garden. You said being cooped up indoors was making you crazy. I’ll bring the Remington out, and you can get back to work while I mop up in here.’
He stared at her. His fingers twitched and something uncurled in his chest, it felt a little like awe. Writing on the verandah, why hadn’t he thought of that? He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to . . . well, best not go there. Instead he settled for a half-smile. ‘You realise that’s an absolutely brilliant idea?’
‘Off you go, then.’ She made a shooing motion. ‘I’ll be out in a tick.’
He went to the door, then looked back at her. He’d been a stupid jerk trying to wake her up. To her credit, she’d handled the whole disaster like a champ.
‘Listen, when you’re done, grab that photo album over there in the bookcase. Bring it out and we’ll have a look.’
• • •
Carefully collecting the teapot shards, I wrapped them in newsprint and binned them, and then mopped up the tea. I found Tom’s battered red photo album in the bookcase, a black ribbon tied around its bulging pages. Smiling to myself, I trailed my fingers over its worn cover. What secrets lay within? I placed it on top of the Remington, and manhandled the big old typewriter into my arms, but then a neat bundle of typed papers caught my attention.