There were old papers, what looked to be a small chest, and some boxes shoved at the back. Ellie sneezed as she pulled at the tin chest and a folded, yellowed newspaper that had been wedged in below slid to the floor. Balancing the chest on one leg, she opened the lid and sneezed again, pushing aside musty fabric to uncover a thin envelope. Ellie opened it and let the contents slide into her hand.
Here were photographs of her mother and father on their wedding day. Two formal figures, standing stiffly side by side, her mother looking up at his face, her eyes bright. She held a simple bouquet in her hand and she looked beautiful. Innocent.
‘So pretty,’ Ellie stared at the photo in wonder. Her mother had been beautiful; Ellie hadn’t just imagined it, coloured her memories with it. Was this why her mother had left and never returned for her? Because she couldn’t bear to look at such an ugly daughter? Ellie placed the photo on the bench top and dug deeper into the chest. A wedding certificate. Some women’s underwear, stockings, handkerchiefs, and socks. Had Daddy just upended Mummy’s drawers from the bedroom when she’d left and shoved all of the contents in here? Why hadn’t Mummy taken them with her? Ellie held one of the handkerchiefs up to her face and inhaled, longing for her mother’s scent, but there was nothing except decades of dust and decay that caused her to sneeze again and again and made her eyes water. She took the wedding certificate and placed it with the photo, making a pact with herself. She would explore the contents of this box and the rest of the cupboard later.
First, she had to dig.
Ellie hadn’t seen Maisie for weeks, not since the day of the storm, when Maisie’s mother came to the house one afternoon, her voice unnaturally high and tense. She gave their front door a barrage of knocks.
‘Arthur, Arthur, are you home?’ Daddy had just come in from the shed and was washing his hands at the sink, leaving a deep, dark trail in the basin. He wiped his hands on a towel and spotted Ellie standing in the bathroom doorway. He grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her towards the towel rack.
‘You stay in here. Not a sound, you understand?’
Ellie nodded as he pulled the door behind him. The latch hadn’t caught and the door swung open a little. Ellie picked at the skin on her hands. Should she push it closed or would that attract his attention? She looked around the bathroom, hoping for a sign. She straightened the towel he had just used and plucked off a curly strand of hair that fluttered to the floor. If she kept quiet, if she were still, she would be safe. She just wanted to see Maisie’s mum, and Maisie, if she were with her. Last week Maisie had sneaked into the backyard and slipped a drawing under the back door. Grandmother had gone for the afternoon and Daddy hadn’t yet come home from work.
‘Why won’t you come and play?’ Maisie had called out, but Ellie had told her to be quiet. Ellie had to lie on the floor near the back door to try and peek under it, half-desperate to catch a glimpse of Maisie, half-terrified both girls would be caught. She had raised her voice so Maisie could hear her.
‘You have to go home.’ Ellie had pleaded. Daddy could have come home at any moment. What if Maisie had told her mum that Ellie was locked inside? What if Maisie’s mum had come to rescue her? To take her home with them, to be Maisie’s sister, to be loved? Mrs Tillett might even knit her a pretty jumper too.
‘In here,’ she breathed. I’m here. She took a step closer to the door and peered around. Daddy had barely opened the front door before Mrs Tillett spoke.
‘Maisie’s missing—have you seen her?’
Ellie heard the words, but they didn’t make sense. Maisie had been in the backyard again this afternoon. Minutes after Grandmother had driven off, Maisie had knocked before slipping a drawing under the back door. Ellie had hidden it under her bed.
‘Nope,’ Daddy’s voice was flat and dull.
‘She was playing in the backyard earlier, I thought she might have wandered over, I don’t know, I mean, I thought you might have seen her or heard her or…’
‘No.’
‘She’d done a drawing; she keeps saying Ellie’s back…’ Maisie’s mum made a choked sound, ‘I thought perhaps she’d, oh, I don’t know, come in for a look?’ Her voice sounded hopeful, desperately so. Ellie squinted through the gap between the door and the frame, wishing she could run up to Mrs Tillett and shout, ‘Here I am!’ Maisie’s mummy would save her, wouldn’t she? Ellie picked at the raised scars on her arms. If Mrs Tillett saw her, Ellie would be in trouble, big trouble. Daddy would be so angry. He would hurt her. He might even hurt Maisie’s mum, he’d be so mad, and then Maisie wouldn’t be her friend anymore. Ellie really would be sent away, gone; Mummy would never find her if she came home… Ellie scratched, her nails scraping and scouring her forearm. She’d broken the skin, but didn’t feel a thing. She nudged the door a fraction for a better look. She had to see. Unnoticed by either her father or Mrs Tillett, Ellie could make out her Daddy’s back, broad in the dirty blue overalls he wore. He turned slightly, his elbow out and one hand that kept returning to his pocket, fingering something and shielding it from view. The other hand rested on the doorframe, perfectly still.
‘Haven’t seen her.’
‘I just thought, she might have… Oh God, I don’t know where she is.’
Daddy shifted position, leaving Ellie with a clear view of Maisie’s mother. Mrs Tillett’s hands moved in front of her stomach in tight, flickering gestures. Such odd hands on a grown woman’s body, Ellie thought, they looked like a child’s hands—small, soft, and white, with short stubby fingers curling out from a stunted palm. Mrs Tillett’s mouth opened and shut in tandem with her eyes that darted around as if she were afraid of making eye contact with Ellie’s father. Her eyes flashed to the end of the corridor and the bathroom where Ellie was hiding and Ellie held her breath, certain her spying, her very presence, was about to uncovered.
‘I’m in here,’ she mouthed, ‘I’m here. Find me.’ Mrs Tillett’s thrusting hands seemed to be shaping the air, pulling and teasing, searching for something to cup, as if her hands were aching to hold her lost daughter and cradle her body, yet they moved so fast and erratically that Ellie was certain Maisie’s mother wouldn’t be able to hold anything right now except for that gaping, vacant air.
‘I mean, I know you said that Dolores had taken Ellie back to her family in Victoria so Ellie could recuperate, but Maisie was so convinced she’d seen her, you see.’
Daddy moved again and blocked Ellie’s view once more. All she could see were those dark blue overalls and the bulge where he’d thrust his fist into his pocket. I’m real, I’m still here, please…
‘Haven’t seen her,’ he grunted. ‘If I do, I’ll send her home.’ He moved to shut the door. ‘Give her a smack on the bum for worrying you so.’
Whatever Mrs Tillett’s reply was going to be was lost as her father shut the door. Ellie stepped back and perched on the edge of the bath. She heard his footsteps in the corridor coming towards her.
‘Ellie.’ Those blue overalls seemed to take up the entire doorway. She stared at his feet, not daring to meet his eyes. ‘Look at me.’
Her bottom lip trembled; she was terrified her face would give her away. He’d know she’d been watching; he’d know she’d thought about leaving with Mrs Tillett—somehow, he would know. He knew everything. Her father moved closer and his large dirty boots stood centimetres from her pale legs. His hand gripped her chin, forcing it upwards.
‘Look at me!’ Her eyes registered his other hand coming out from his pocket just before she met his eyes. There was something red in there, she thought dimly before the blow from his hand knocked her sideways, off the edge of the bath, and onto the tiled floor.
‘Were you listening?’
‘No!’ The word burst from her mouth.
‘Don’t lie to me, Ellie. You heard.’
She nodded mutely.
‘Were you watching?�
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Ellie froze.
‘You were watching.’
‘No, no, I didn’t…’
‘Liar!’ He shifted the weight from one leg and she thought he was about to kick her. ‘I know about you and that girl.’ His face was cruel with a cold fury. One rough hand grabbed her by the hair and pulled her upright. She tried to focus through the tears of pain and fear that welled in her eyes and blurred his face.
‘I know that little brat’s been in my yard. I know it. I know you’ve seen her. You’ll never see her again, you hear me? Never again.’ His bitter words sent her reeling backwards onto the edge of the bath. He walked out then and left the door to the bathroom ajar. Ellie waited until she heard the back door open and close before she stumbled to her feet and staggered down the corridor to her bedroom. She dropped to her knees and crawled over to her bed, reaching underneath for the drawing Maisie had done. Maisie couldn’t have left her, wouldn’t have. Not without saying goodbye. Ellie wiped her eyes and nose with the bottom of her shirt. Maisie would come back. There would be other drawings, other letters. Ellie knew she would just have to wait. She was good at that.
The police came that night to the door and asked Daddy if he’d seen anything unusual in the street. They’d been to Maisie’s house; Ellie had heard the voices from where she lay, silent, in the dark on her bed. There were flashing, coloured lights against her papered window. There were men with torches; there was talk of a search party. Daddy laughed when he had told her he was joining the search, his overalls back on over his day clothes, torch in hand.
Ellie was awake when he returned and flinched as his cold hands groped and held her beneath the sheets. She squeezed her eyes shut trying to remember every detail of the drawing Maisie had done for her, imagining what she would draw in return. Maisie would come back. In the daylight, everything would be fine. Everything would be okay again.
An advertisement for the district show had been playing on the radio when Ellie entered the kitchen the next morning.
‘You’re late.’
‘Sorry, Daddy.’ He was up early, but she couldn’t say that. She could never say that. He had already made his own breakfast and, as the local news report started, Daddy stiffened in his chair, a piece of toast halfway to his mouth.
Searchers have not yet located the missing girl, but a sandal suspected of belonging to the child was discovered at Coalcliff Beach. Police will resume a land-and-sea search today, focusing around the shoreline where the shoe was located. They hold grave fears for the young girl’s safety…
‘Maisie?’
Her father turned his head and stared at her, an undecipherable expression on his face.
‘She’s gone. She won’t be sniffing around here anymore.’
‘Where did she go?’ she whispered, a sick feeling spreading from her stomach. Mummy had left her and now Maisie had gone. Ellie had no one who was hers.
He ignored her, resumed eating his toast and swept the crumbs that had fallen onto the tablecloth in his hand, depositing them onto his plate. Ellie stood, ready to take his plate to the sink. It didn’t make sense. Maisie was out there in the world with only one shoe.
The shovel was rough and unfamiliar in her hands. She stood in the dogs’ enclosure, gazing down at the bare earth. A few weeds grew on the fringes of the cage, but nothing else intruded. The dogs were buried somewhere in here; he had told her that, glaring at her with a look of resentment so fierce it burned. It wasn’t my fault, she’d wanted to cry out, I didn’t mean it! but she had said nothing.
‘I didn’t mean it.’ Too late, the words hung, meaningless, in the air. Ellie put her right foot on the shovel, pushed down, and began to dig. It wasn’t long before her shoulders, neck, and back began to ache. Digging was harder and more arduous than she’d ever imagined. She had never done this type of labour before, not outside work. Grandmother Clements had taught her the household chores, and Daddy had taught her about pain. Different kinds of pain. The babies he had put in her and then taken away had been part of the lesson. He had told her never to talk about them, but their memories had remained, the pain remained. Not that fierce deluge of pain down there, but the hollow aching within her chest.
She had tried to create her own babies, to piece them together out of fabric scraps with embroidered scared, oversized eyes, but no noses. One doll, Baby, was missing a mouth. Baby was her second favourite. Ever, her special girl with the porcelain head was her absolute favourite. All of her dolls were her family and she had promised to stay with them and protect them. She hid them under the bed each night so they wouldn’t have to watch if Daddy came in and grunted and groaned and spurted his stickiness into her.
She loved her dolls still. Daddy had laughed at them. Once he had picked up Baby with her wide eyes on that blank misshapen face and swung her disdainfully from one hand. Her darling Baby, sewn awkwardly from an old t-shirt he had designated for the ragbag, dangled before him as he had laughed in braying insult.
‘What do you call this?’ He had poked a finger at the soft cotton head attached to the tiny torso and limbs. Ellie had flinched and swallowed hard as he had pulled at the arms and legs. There were no hands or feet. She hadn’t been able to shape them.
‘It’s—it’s mine,’ she’d stammered.
‘I know that,’ he’d sneered, ‘I said, what d’ya call it? A doll?’ He hadn’t waited for her reply. ‘Looks like shit, just like you.’
Ellie had held out one trembling hand. She hadn’t wanted him to take this away from her too—not her darling baby girl. Daddy had ignored the outstretched hand and dropped the doll on the floor. He had picked up another, more traditional doll that had a stained and dirty porcelain head with fine wisps of hair that revealed the threading underneath, attached to a worn body. Ever.
‘Where did you get this?’
‘Grandmother.’
He had looked at the doll for a moment, his hand squeezing its body as something akin to anger and recognition had flashed across his face. Ellie had kept her hand extended for her doll’s return, but her father had turned and walked away and left her standing, empty handed, her few deformed, cloth toys littered at her feet.
When Ellie had gone to her room that night, she had spotted a jar lying atop her pillow, with something wiry and golden peeking from the top. Hair. Just like the hair on Grandmother’s doll. Her stomach had twisted as she had stepped closer. It was her doll. Not the whole doll, just the head. A cracked porcelain head in an old jar Daddy must have had out in the shed for it smelt of grease and stale air.
‘There you go,’ he’d smirked from the doorway. ‘Play with that.’
A sudden cramp in her right hand brought her out of her memories and she looked down. Her hands were swollen with blistered pain. Ellie stopped digging, flexing her fingers against the handle of the shovel, before resuming her painstaking attempts to break up the hard soil.
‘You’d better toughen up, my girl. Get some callouses on those fingers.’ Ellie could still remember her grandmother’s words. Grandmother Clements had taught her to bake, to wash, to iron, and to sew. Ellie had been a slow learner and Grandmother an impatient teacher. When Ellie’s scarred and nerve-damaged hands had fumbled with the wooden reels, when she couldn’t thread a needle, pulled too hard or not hard enough, pricked her fingers and bled, staining each piece of cloth with tiny scarlet dots, her Grandmother had snapped in frustration.
‘I’m never letting you near my sewing machine, girl; you’ll only break it. You’ll master sewing by hand, God help me.’ She would wrench the fabric from Ellie, continuing to mutter under her breath.
‘You’re going to have to learn, girl, learn to make do. You can’t go pestering him to buy you new things… Don’t bother him with things like that, not if you know what’s good for you…’
‘Why can’t I come live with you?’ Ellie didn’t like her
grandmother, but at least she wasn’t Daddy.
‘Lord, child, I don’t want you.’
Ellie’s technique had improved over time and her grandmother had started to talk more, if not to Ellie, then to the ghosts that surrounded her.
‘He’s got a temper; he’s always had it. Couldn’t keep out of trouble, though he’d swear blind it was never him who did it… Looked like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth as a lad, but cross him and he’d turn nasty, just like his father.’
Ellie would listen to these bewildering accounts of her father. She couldn’t believe he’d ever been a boy. This fictional Arthur had to be a product of her grandmother’s ageing mind.
‘But what could I do? Nothing. He brought home a wage when his father passed. Better to make do, my girl; best keep your head down. His sister, well, she… and I…’ Her voice had faltered and stopped. Moisture had glistened in the corner of her eye before she’d blinked and it was gone. This stony-hearted woman who’d raised a cold, pitiless son had finally shown a glimpse of true feeling. ‘You look like her, you know, after a fashion.’
‘Not that we need fashion, it’s not for the likes of us Clements women. We make do.’ It was the most Grandmother had ever said.
Ellie had learned how to make do; she’d learned that Grandmother was right. Pretty things and fashion were not for her. Grandmother had brought her an inexpensive, white nightgown one day. That cheap lace cotton with a machine-embroidered, frippery pink bow on the front was the prettiest thing her grandmother had ever given her. Ellie had run to her room and put it on, skipping back to her grandmother’s side to show her.
‘I’m like a girl,’ she’d said.
Her grandmother had snorted in derision. ‘What did you think you were?’
‘I don’t know,’ Ellie had answered honestly.
In her nightie, in that white imitation lace, Ellie knew it was the closest she would ever come to being a bride on her wedding night. On those dark, sweaty nights when Daddy had pushed the nightie to cover her face as he’d twisted and pinched her budding breasts, Ellie had known she was ugly. Disgusting. Dirty. If she could, she would try to picture lovely things: her drawings, her cat, or taking herself down to the beach and see the waves rolling in and washing her clean. Sometimes she would just count until it was over. Sometimes she would pretend she was asleep.
Path to the Night Sea Page 18