The Aunts’ House

by Elizabeth Stead

  ‘Sorry again, Angel,’ he said, she knowing what he meant.

  ‘I told you it’s private,’ said Angel. ‘Some things are private!’

  ‘I’m sorry. I think it’s all beautiful, your artwork, but if you say so not a soul will hear about the cupboard door from me. You’re very clever, Angel. Smart. Smarter than most. Now it is really time for bed. I’ll see you in the morning, around eight?’

  ‘Seven. Use the back door.’

  ‘Aye, aye. Good night, Angel.’ And Uncle George left the broom cupboard as quietly as he was able to do so.

  At five in the morning Angel crept into the kitchen on that beautiful, clear Monday and hard-boiled two eggs. She wrapped them in a tea towel with two slices of bread slicked with dripping taken from a bowl in Missus Potts’s ice chest. A poor man’s breakfast, she thought, for a man of means from Melbourne, but she was sure there’d be berries to pick and maybe a yabby or two in the creek so she added to her picnic towel a flat metal dish and a box of matches. She went very quietly about her work and not even the cockroach in the sink praying for a dropped scrap was disturbed. She was, in her way, happy that the closeness of the night before with her Uncle George had been for the most part entertaining, revealing and totally in her control. She thought she might have frightened him a little but was not sorry. And she grinned in her way when she remembered his offer to leave her a few pounds for whatever she liked – no questions asked. She was still embarrassed, however, that he had seen her family collection on the cupboard door. No one was allowed to see that but she sometimes wondered if Missus Potts poked about in her room when she was out riding the trams.

  At seven that morning she met Uncle George outside the back door with her cloth tied like a pudding full of eggs, bread and utensils hung on a stick and over her shoulder like something in a Charles Dickens illustration she’d seen.

  ‘Angel – very quaint I’ve got to say. Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Hardly – not at all. I was excited about today.’

  ‘Well, you lead the way – I’m looking forward to spending time with you.’

  ‘When do you have to leave today?’

  ‘Haven’t decided. I might buy you those sandals before I go.’

  ‘Okay.’

  There was an early-morning birdsong from the gully that was so beautiful Angel found it difficult to describe it to a human. It came from a currawong, waking and telling the sky world it was time to fly. It was a seasonal sound and always like the tolling of the sweetest bell ever heard. Angel very often woke herself at the crack of dawn to stand at her window and listen and sometimes wish she was part of the flock.

  ‘Ssshhh – isn’t it beautiful?’

  ‘The bird?’

  ‘Even the music in my head stops for the morning currawong.’ Angel led Uncle George almost on tip-toe down the track she had worn from the house to the gully. ‘I’ll show you the creek rocks first where there’s moss thick as cushions. We can have our breakfast then I’ll take you for a walk.’

  ‘It is nice down here.’

  ‘Nice?’

  ‘Sorry – nice not the right word? – and this is certainly the right time for the gully – early.’

  They sat on the creek rocks sopping wet from the dew and ate eggs and bread like dirt-poors. Pure water from the creek was all they had to drink but Uncle George seemed pleased. Two yabbies passed them and waved as they swam down current.

  ‘Dash it,’ said Uncle George. ‘I wasn’t ready.’

  ‘They were too small anyway – they were only babies.’

  ‘You really love this place, don’t you? Which do you prefer, the gully or the Bay? Think carefully – where would you rather be?’

  Silence while she thought. Silent she was as dew dripped from the gum trees with a touch of aromatic oil at the tips of leaves. Silent while a morning breeze, clean and fresh, wound like a ribbon through the bush and around the trees, tossing late birds out of their nests to forage. Uncle George waited.

  ‘I love them both,’ said Angel. ‘But I love the Bay a little bit more. It’s where my memories began. It’s where I remember Mother …’

  ‘O God, forgive me, Angel!’

  ‘And it’s near Mariana and the aunts’ house and I love them and I don’t love Missus Potts. So, I have to say, I like the Bay just a little bit more than the gully. What do you like best, Uncle George?’

  ‘I’m a fisherman, Angel.’

  ‘You’ll come back and visit again, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course I will.’

  ‘I wish Miss Varnham was here with us. You like her don’t you?’

  ‘I think she is a remarkable woman, Angel. She’s visiting her sister in the sanitarium today, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. Her name is Heather.’

  ‘What’s wrong with Heather?’

  ‘Everything!’

  Monday

  In the gully Uncle George tripped over a log and hurt his leg. It was not a bad injury – just a graze – but it made him irritable and at first he bled all over his shoes.

  ‘You know, Angel, I’m old enough to be your grandfather! I’m not up to this hiking through scrubby bush.’

  ‘Your blood’s a nice colour.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your blood’s a nice colour. Blood’s a nice red when it’s fresh. I forget the number for that sort of red but Barnaby will know.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Angel, try and think straight for a moment. Look how far we’ve come – we’ve got to get back and it’s getting late and to tell the truth I am very bloody tired.’ Uncle George’s expression had changed. Probably the blood, Angel thought.

  ‘You don’t really have to go back today, do you?’

  ‘I don’t like to be far from the sea, Angel.’

  ‘Okay. If you don’t like it here we’ll go back.’ Click click. ‘The creek’s not far. We’ll follow it up back to the house.’

  ‘Where does this creek end?’ Sensing the change in her voice.

  ‘It runs to a river. There’s a river called Lazy Cove and it’s miles from here but this creek goes all that way to the river. There’s a park there where families have picnics and they can hire little boats and have fun.’

  ‘Have you been there?’

  ‘No. I read about things and look at photos. How could I go to a place like that!’ Click. ‘Come on then!’

  But walking back against the current of the creek there were berries to pick and fresh water to drink, with the yabbies and tadpoles fat as butter balls, and almost-frogs. Angel searched under the fronds of ferns for small things hidden and Uncle George sat on a familiar ball of moss-covered rock and waited with little patience.

  ‘My leg is hurting, Angel. I think there’s a splinter – and I have to clean my shoes and trousers.’

  ‘Come on, then. I told you.’

  But by the time they returned to the boarding house – he, limping and she, like a wild thing bred in the scrub they’d left – it was a quarter to two.

  Angel observed the colour of Uncle George’s blood. It had changed from fresh red to darker as it dried. She would ask Barnaby what the numbers were later.

  ‘There’s a first aid box in the downstairs bathroom. Miss Varnham should be back soon and she’ll know what to do.’

  ‘Don’t be angry, Angel. I thought the gully was beautiful. I’m just too old for trekking – and look at you – thin as a stick and nothing on your feet. Aren’t you afraid of snakes?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, I did like the blue gums. They’re the tallest I’ve seen.’

  ‘I don’t think you liked any of it one bit.’ Click. ‘I think you just want to get back to the Bay and Brooklyn Street and my rocks. But remember they’re my rocks and my aunts, not yours!’

  ‘O, Angel Martin, for God’s sake!’

>   And in the kitchen, after cleaning up the pudding bag of a picnic that had been no fun at all, Angel stamped up the stairs to her broom cupboard like Aunt Clara climbing her stairs when she was angry. But she didn’t have to put a cracked record on a player like Aunt Clara – there was always music playing.

  Angel picked twigs, leaves and grass from her stack of hair and put them all in a scrap of rag. She tied the rag at the top and put it in the back of her cupboard to remind her of a day not right in its head, then stood at her tiny window, stared at the gully and wished she was someone else.

  Uncle George, scratched, scraped and sore, his trousers and shoes cleaned as well as he could manage, sighed with relief when he stood at the front door and watched the Duchess of Nullabri flow down Duffy Street in a sashed robe, sombre as a priest about to give the last rites. She carried a shopping bag. He moved forward to meet her and took the bag.

  ‘Not a good hill, up or down, Miss Varnham,’ said George Wolf. ‘I’ll ask Missus Potts to make you a cup of tea. I hope your sister is feeling better.’

  ‘You’re limping, Mister Wolf. Why are you limping?’

  ‘A trip in the gully. Angel took me for a long bushwalk. I’m simply not up to it. I’m very pleased to see you, Miss Varnham.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be catching fish, Mister Wolf? You’ve left it all very late. By the time you get to the Bay they’ll have all gone to bed. And why are you so pleased to see me?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve upset my niece.’

  ‘O, Angel is easily upset. She’ll have changed her mood by now. How did you upset her?’

  ‘Simply liking the sea more than the gully. She made a special picnic and I’m afraid I spoiled it for her.’

  ‘Angel is Angel, Mister Wolf, and if you could arrange a cup of tea I would be most grateful. I have had a most disturbing day.’ And Winifred, without another word, took the shopping bag from George Wolf and swept into her broom cupboard.

  Uncle George found Missus and Mister Potts in the laundry, not stirring a copper of boiling sheets or wringing wet washing but otherwise occupied.

  ‘Excuse me, Missus Potts’, he said, startling them both. ‘Miss Varnham has just come from visiting her sister and would like a cup of tea …’

  ‘Tell her to get it herself.’

  ‘And I wonder if I could extend my stay for one more night? It really is too late to travel back to the Bay.’

  ‘I’ll have to check the book but it’ll be—’

  ‘Extra?’

  ‘Yes, extra, Mister Wolf and why not? I don’t run a charity here and speaking of charity you might tell that niece of yours it’s time to get the shanks heating up and the spuds peeled and Mister Potts, get those pegs out of your mouth. You look like a walrus.’

  George Wolf decided to make the tea himself and when he went to the kitchen he found Angel had already begun her chores. He didn’t make a fuss.

  ‘Miss Varnham wants a cup of tea, Angel. Do you mind if I make it while you work?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And I have decided to stay the night. It’s far too late for the Bay. Plenty of time tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay. Sorry, Uncle George,’ was all she said and it was enough.

  ‘O, and by the way, Missus Potts said it was time to heat up the shanks.’ And they both pretended to retch. It made them laugh and that was enough.

  ‘Missus Potts, where is my tea?’

  ‘Missus Potts is in the laundry with Mister Potts and I have just finished making the tea for you.’ Uncle George was still chuckling.

  ‘And I’ve got the shanks heating up and the spuds peeled,’ said Angel, grinning her little sharp-toothed smile.

  Miss Varnham uncovered the shank pot and threw in a bunch of greenery she had wrapped in newspaper.

  ‘Some wild rosemary, mint and – and something else – have no idea what, sorrel I think, but herbs in the pot can’t possibly do the shanks any harm.’ Then she left with her tea and they hadn’t realised she was not smiling.

  Earlier, there had been three departures from the boarding house. Casuals.

  ‘Casuals used to slip in and out of this place on the quiet, ghosts they were in the early hours with borrowed names like crooks on the run.’ Missus Potts explained to Winifred Varnham that she had been caught short in the early days of the boarding house business. ‘But didn’t take me long to work that one out. It’s been pay in advance with extra for the booking ever since. There’s just eight for tea tonight.’

  ‘A comfortable number, Missus Potts.’ In the kitchen Winifred Varnham rinsed out her tea cup. ‘And I must say, Missus Potts, the shanks smell quite nice.’

  ‘Beats me what it is. Something the cows ate I suppose. There’ll be a few left after tea.’

  ‘Then, Missus Potts, we can expect shanks for the rest of the week?’

  ‘You can muck around with the leftovers if you like, Miss Varnham. You’re a good cook.’ The small gesture of kindness made Winifred Varnham smile. ‘And how’s that sister of yours?’

  ‘Remarkably changed, Missus Potts, but I think I will relax for a while and chat later. I have had a most tiring day.’

  At the table there was only one stranger, a casual with hay fever and as deaf as a door post. Angel, as usual, had done her best with setting the table by adding a few wildflowers and a sprig of maidenhair fern. Mister Joseph, keen as ever, had washed his shirt and scrubbed the collar with a toothbrush. Winifred had changed from her ‘last rites’ robe and wore an ordinary one the colour of mustard, no jewellery, and a black chopstick through her bun. Uncle George seemed a little pale and worse for wear and Barnaby Grange was rustic as the English countryside in his clothes that matched the grass seeds still stuck in his hair. The shanks, however, served in bowls with potatoes and juice from the pot, were very nice.

  ‘Where is Mister Potts?’ Angel felt very strongly that the atmosphere in the room was not right.

  ‘Mister Potts, as if anyone gives two hoots, is possibly out on the septic tank cover with a bottle and if he misses out on tea I don’t care.’

  ‘Now, tell us – how is your sister, Miss Varnham?’ George Wolf had asked for a stool in order to raise his leg under the table. The leg had a distinct smell of tea tree oil. ‘You’ve obviously had a long and trying day.’

  ‘My sister?’ Winifred Varnham suddenly sat very straight in her chair and closed her eyes. She looked as though she was about to be very bravely shot. ‘My sister, Mister Wolf, has been deceiving me! Deceiving us all! My sister, Mister Wolf, has made a fool of me and those who have been kind enough, at great cost I might say, to care for her and the sanitarium has demanded her removal at my earliest possible convenience and …’

  Angel moved to her duchess and hugged her. She could see that Winifred was struggling to hide her tears.

  ‘… and I was going to ask you later, Missus Potts, if you could accommodate Heather in addition until I can find a flat or a small house to rent.’

  ‘God Almighty – what’s she done?’

  ‘Heather, Missus Potts, has been seen roaming the sanitarium in the dead of night on two perfectly good legs wearing a nurse’s uniform and disguised in a wig and glasses. Heather, Missus Potts, has been seen squatting in the bucket room at night with every part of her body healthy as a day’s dawn, enjoying tea and a pile of sandwiches given to her by the kitchen staff. In short, Missus Potts, by day she has played the part of a slowly dying waif-like creature, waited on hand and foot by caring nurses, again at great expense if I may say so, only to deceive us all by coming perfectly alive and well quite suddenly in the early hours as though she’d bumped into Jesus Christ in a bazaar! The kitchen staff, who thought it all a great joke, have been severely reprimanded and the sanitarium has asked me to remove her.’

  ‘I don’t run a hospital. I couldn’t cope with that, Miss Varnham. I mean, your sister could
be all over this place in the middle of the night and I need my sleep.’

  ‘I would do what I could to help but I must leave tomorrow,’ said George Wolf.

  ‘But I’ll help,’ cried Angel and she hugged her duchess again.

  ‘I’m sure we’d all like to help,’ said one of the boarders. ‘And I presume you’ve considered the benefit of the extras, Missus Potts.’

  Mister Joseph, who could hear an opportunity knocking loud enough to stun him, said, ‘And I, dear lady, will give all of my time to help with your poor sister.’ Mister Joseph smiled widely but the string of shank caught between his front teeth spoiled the effect.

  ‘O, well, if it’s only for a short stay I suppose it’s all right.’

  ‘Thank you. I don’t suppose there’d be room for a bed next to mine?’

  ‘Couldn’t get a chamber pot in there let alone a bed.’ Mister Potts had come in and was drinking the meat juice from plates ready to be cleared. ‘She could have old Canning’s room.’

  ‘There’s a ghost in there,’ said Angel, quite seriously even though everyone laughed.

  ‘It’d be a bloody cold one,’ slurped Mister Potts. ‘Is he still in the morgue?’

  ‘You shouldn’t believe in ghosts, Angel,’ said Uncle George.

  ‘O? But I do – I’ve seen one.’

  ‘Then it’s time I took you up to your bed, Angel. I have to get up early tomorrow. I’m sure everything will work well for your sister, Miss Varnham.’

  Barnaby Grace had not said a word or a number. He had been sketching but looked up when Angel’s Uncle George took her hand and led her away from the table.

  ‘Good night, Mister Wolf.’

  ‘You don’t have to do this.’ Angel could see that Uncle George still limped on the stairs. ‘I can go to bed by myself – I’m not a child.’

  ‘But you are still a child to me, Angel. You’re very clever but you are still a child and there is something I want to talk to you about.’