by Liza Perrat
I put out the chicken sandwiches along with the food people had brought: a tomato and cheese salad (warm and soggy) from Mavis and Mad Myrtle Sloan, a three-bean salad from Coralie Anderson. Mrs Mornon had made cucumber (yes, really cucumber!) sandwiches.
Old Lenny loped back in with an Esky full of beer.
‘And where did all that beer come from, Old Lenny?’ Nanna Purvis said.
‘Think of it as a little something to help youse with the funeral costs,’ Old Lenny said, winking at Nanna Purvis as he stashed the beer in the fridge.
‘There’ll be no winking at me, Old Lenny.’ Nanna Purvis started at him, a hand raised. He hurried back outside, arms full of beer bottles, plait slapping the back of his neck like a rat’s tail.
Mrs Moretti appeared at the front door holding a basket filled with Tupperware containers. ‘I no stay, Mrs Purvis, is not my place for this family sadness. I just bring you meals for the family.’ As usual, she waved her arms about as she spoke. ‘Lasagne, cannelloni, gnocchi, ravioli.’
‘That’s very nice of you,’ I said. Angela’s mother gave my arm a squeeze and before Nanna Purvis could argue about foreign grub again, Mrs Moretti was loading the Tupperware containers into the freezer.
Dad came inside for more beers. ‘Thanks, Sofia ... much appreciated.’
‘A big pleasure for me,’ Mrs Moretti said and, as she turned to leave, ‘Angelina is liking Tanya come at our home again, very soon. It help not to think about ...?’
‘Oh yes, please Dad?’
‘Beaut idea, Sofia,’ Dad said, dragging my fingers from the cowlick.
Nanna Purvis opened her mouth to put up some kind of argument, but one look at my father’s glare must’ve made her think better of it, and her furry slippers shuffled across the lino as she followed Dad into the living-room.
‘Bog in,’ Nanna Purvis said, pointing at the buffet table, ‘plenty of tucker for everyone.’
The mourners sat on the white sheets covering the sofa and armchairs, balancing paper plates on their laps. They all seemed thankful for the excuse of food, to avoid speaking. There was still no sign of my mother and Dad made no more effort to force her out of the bedroom.
That Bitch Beryl pulled out Only for Sheilas from under a cushion. She waved the magazine about, and it fell open to a full two-page picture of a naked man. I tried not to gasp, suddenly understanding why Nanna Purvis always tried to hide the magazine from me when she was reading it.
My aunt let out a snuffly-pig guffaw. ‘Yours, Pearl? How pathetic, at your age.’
‘And if that isn’t cocky calling the kettle black,’ Nanna Purvis said, snatching Only for Sheilas from That Bitch Beryl.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ My aunt puckered her lips.
‘You waltzing around like some tart, that mini-skirt what shows off ya map ’a Tassie to all and Sunday,’ Nanna Purvis said. ‘I’ve said it before, I’ll never understand why my daughter married into the Randall family. Eleanor could’ve done a darn sight better than an alky brickie. But then I suppose I should be thankful she did end up with Dobson rather than that bad egg brother of yours, Beryl. That was a near miss, if ever there was one.’
Mum, end up with Uncle Blackie ... the summer of ’57-’58?
As if Uncle Blackie had known we were speaking about him, he appeared in the living-room at that very moment. No knock on the door, not a word. He was just standing there, tall and lean in the Driza-Bone coat. Oh gosh, what was he doing here?
Uncle Blackie didn’t look at me and nobody said anything, probably because most of the people didn’t know him. How strange it was, seeing him here with this crowd. Not just the two of us.
A horrifying thought struck me then, as I imagined Uncle Blackie pulling the nude photos of me from his pocket. He’d show them around to all the mourners, like That Bitch Beryl showing Nanna Purvis’s magazine photos to everyone. And they’d all laugh at fat, naked Tanya. A hot iron scalded my legs, my belly, my chest, and I felt myself shrivelling up, shrinking away from the shame, the pin-stabbing guilt.
‘Who let you out?’ Nanna Purvis said, staring at Uncle Blackie.
‘Blackie?’ Dad moved towards his brother and, seeing them side by side, I saw how alike they were. ‘I thought I saw ... hospital ... no hallucination ...?’
‘Is it really you, Blackie?’ That Bitch Beryl tottered over to him, gave him a bear hug. ‘Why didn’t you call, let us know you were ...?’
‘Who’s that?’ Mad Myrtle whispered to Mrs Anderson, who shrugged. Other people were whispering amongst themselves, darting glances at Uncle Blackie, trying to work out who he might be.
Uncle Bernie held up his whisky glass and stuck out his chest like a proud cockatoo. ‘This is Blackburn Randall,’ he announced as if he was some important bearer of top-secret information. ‘Beryl and Dobson’s brother.’
My mother must’ve heard Blackie’s name because she came wandering out from her bedroom, barefoot, a frown creasing her elfish face. And when she saw it was him, she pressed a palm to her heart and her breaths came out quick and nervy.
‘Blackie?’ Through the crowd gaping at the newcomer like a hooked fish, Uncle Blackie’s gaze found my mother’s. He smiled, the same soft and dreamy smile he always gave me. Something thumped against my chest, like my yoyo bouncing up too fast and whacking me in the ribs.
I was surprised to see my mother smile back –– a furtive one she didn’t want anybody to notice –– dull eyes flickering with a pinpoint of light, dim at first, then brightening.
‘I heard the tragic news, Eleanor,’ Uncle Blackie said, patting my mother’s arm. ‘Just wanted to drop by and say how dreadfully sorry I am ... give my condolences.’
Nanna Purvis kept glaring at Uncle Blackie but I don’t think even my grandmother dared argue with sibling rights, so bottoms shifted on the sofa, and Uncle Blackie squeezed in between Dad and Mrs Mornon, who looked especially miffed at having to make room for him.
Uncle Blackie rested a therapeutic gardening hand on my father’s shoulder, gave it a squeeze. That Bitch Beryl spoke to him in a low and whispery voice; I couldn’t catch the words.
When Uncle Blackie had drunk a beer and eaten a few sandwiches, Nanna Purvis said in a loud voice: ‘Righto, you’ve been, given your condolences, now you can be on ya way, Blackie. We’ve got ... got young girls in this house.’
I wanted to ask my grandmother why she didn’t want him in a house with young girls. Was it because he really was a filthy perv, and did something awful to that Carter girl? But I sensed now, in front of all these people, was not the moment to ask. I would make my grandmother tell me later. Somehow I’d force it out of her.
‘What are you insinuating, Pearl?’ That Bitch Beryl said. ‘That was all just some trumped-up charge against my brother. Not a grain of truth in it.’
‘Truth or not,’ Nanna Purvis said. ‘I’m not comfortable having him in my house.’
‘Let me remind you this isn’t your house,’ Dad said. ‘And my brother’ll stay as long as he chooses.’
That Bitch Beryl threw Nanna Purvis a triumphant glare.
Blackie held up his hands as if in surrender. ‘I don’t want to cause any squabbles. I’ll be on my way now.’
‘So soon?’ That Bitch Beryl said. ‘You only just got ... ’
But before she, or anyone else, had a chance to stop him, Uncle Blackie was striding down the hallway towards the front door.
Even if he was a perv, I felt a bit sorry for Uncle Blackie, my grandmother bossing him around like that, making him leave. I scurried after him.
‘Thanks for coming,’ I whispered, as he opened the front door.
He swivelled about, threw me a magical grin –– a bright light shining up his whole face.
‘That’s okay, I wanted to come. Mainly to see if you were holding up okay.’ He touched a finger to my cheek, trailed it down to my mouth. I froze, didn’t know whether to try and run or stay put.
‘You’ve suffered a terrible
tragedy, Tanya, but you’re a strong girl, you’ll come through this. And when you are feeling better, you can come back to Albany and see the photos we took. I developed them in the bathroom ... they’re fabulous. You look like the most beautiful model.’
They’re not in his pocket then. No, of course he wouldn’t show them to anybody. He’d promised they were only for me. I’m just being a ridiculous idiot.
‘Beautiful, really?’ Warmth rushed to my cheeks.
But I felt dizzy too, like standing up too quickly, and the giddiness became blotched up with everything else: confusion, guilt and fear. And doubt, as Angela’s words echoed back at me.
... he can’t do that, Tanya ... it’s wrong. Men who do that are filthy pervs ...
The hot iron turned glacial, so cold I shivered. And in that instant I hated myself for worrying if I truly was beautiful –– for wondering about stupid photos with a man who might be a perv. All I should be thinking about was my baby sister. Poor dead and buried Shelley.
‘Yes, really beautiful, cross my heart,’ Uncle Blackie said, making the sign over his heart. ‘And I can take more photos, any time you want.’
I looked at my uncle and I just knew it –– he was hanging out for me to say yes I’d come for more photos. He so wanted me to come.
‘Hmn, maybe. Maybe I’ll come,’ I said after a moment, trying to appear all thoughtful and undecided. ‘But I’m not certain.’
And as he wriggled his fingers in a small wave and sauntered off to the Kingswood, one of those huge beach dumpsters arced over me. But I was strong, powerful, and it didn’t knock me down. It simply curved, harmlessly, over the top of me.
26
‘Has Auntie Eleanor gone crackers, Mum?’ Sharon nodded at the bedroom into which my mother had fled as soon as Uncle Blackie left.
‘Nothing wrong with your aunt,’ Nanna Purvis snapped. ‘She’s just got the miseries because her little one died, only natural.’
‘Seems like she’s gone crackers to me,’ Vicky said.
‘Same as that lady up Darwin way who went crackers and killed her own kid,’ Sharon said.
Mavis and Mad Myrtle Sloan gasped, their eyes extra froggy.
People stopped eating mid-chew and the living-room fell silent; a silence as white as the sheets covering the furniture.
Their faces curved into arcs of suspicion. Enormous question marks. Like they all wanted to say it was my mother who’d suffocated Shelley but were waiting for someone else to suggest it first. Then they’d all nod their heads. ‘It was Eleanor,’ they’d say. ‘Shelley’s crying sent her crackers.’
‘We all know Eleanor is miserable and unsociable,’ Mrs Mornon said. ‘But to suffocate her own child?’
Mrs Anderson was whispering to Mavis and Mad Myrtle. ‘... odd for months ... that house-cleaning frenzy ... muttering to herself, never leaving Gumtree Cottage.’
‘At least there are special places nowadays,’ That Bitch Beryl said with another red-nail jab, ‘for women who commit such atrocities.’
‘How could you think such a thing!’ I shouted at her. ‘Mum would never’ve hurt Shelley. She never even got angry at her for all the crying ... never slapped or shook her or anything. Ever!’
‘Yeah, that’s my daughter you’re slagging off, Beryl,’ Nanna Purvis said. ‘Shows what kind of people youse lot are. It’s no wonder we only see youse when we’re forced to. Stands out like dog’s balls.’
‘I’m not accusing Eleanor, but the way you’re reacting, Pearl, makes me wonder if you’re not hiding something.’ That Bitch Beryl sniffed, lips twisting like sausage ends. ‘You might go on about Eleanor marrying into the Randall family but my brother was a good man before he married into the Purvis family. We’ll never understand why Dobson did that.’
Nanna Purvis picked up Billie-Jean, trembling with all the raised voices, and held him against her bosom.
Dad strode in from the kitchen. ‘Stop your ridiculous bickering, this is my daughter’s funeral.’
‘Well, I do find it hard to believe the police still haven’t found out who killed little Shelley, Dobson.’ That Bitch Beryl shook her head, and nodded towards my parents’ bedroom. ‘Surely it’s obvious to the police ... when it sure is to the rest of us. I mean, who else could’ve done it?’
‘Eleanor had nothing to do with Shelley’s death,’ Nanna Purvis went on. ‘As Tanya says, she never lost her temper once with the baby ... and that constant crying could’ve pushed anyone over the edge. So I don’t appreciate your nasty insinuations ... leave my daughter be, she’s not a well woman.’
Nanna Purvis’d stuck up for Mum. Cool. Sometimes my grandmother wasn’t so bad after all.
But it did not escape me that my father hadn’t said a word to defend his wife.
‘You simply can’t accept the blinding truth, Pearl.’ My aunt crossed her arms, tapped fingernails against elbows. ‘When everybody else can see it, even your friends and neighbours.’
Nanna Purvis wobbled on her bird legs towards That Bitch Beryl.
Lenny Longbottom clamped a hairy paw on my grandmother’s arm. ‘Don’t let her get to you, Pearl.’
‘I’m not letting her get to me, Old Lenny, and I need your advice like I need a hockey stick in me head.’ She turned back to my aunt. ‘Anyway I’ve had enough of youse Blythes ... just hoof it off home right now, why don’t youse?’
‘I knew this was a mistake, thinking we could get along just once, for the sake of little Shelley,’ That Bitch Beryl said, gathering the family’s belongings –– bags, cardigans, my cousins’ sandals. ‘Come on, Bernie, Sharon, Vicky, we’ve stayed long enough in Figtree Avenue.’
She gave Dad a peck on the cheek, threw Nanna Purvis a dark look and strutted to the front door, the bitchy cousins and Pommie Uncle Bernie in tow. ‘Goodbye, everyone.’
Once the Blythes’ car zoomed off down the road, Nanna Purvis looked around at the rest of the mourners –– the ones who hadn’t sidled off when the initial argument with That Bitch Beryl had broken out. ‘Those rellos’ve exhausted me,’ she said, ‘so if you all don’t mind leaving us in peace now.’
Everyone got up, clutched bags, murmured last words of sympathy.
‘Strewth, glad that’s over with,’ Nanna Purvis said, closing the door behind the last straggler. ‘Now let’s get this place cleaned up, Tanya, I’m gasping for a cuppa and a sit down.’
Mum floated back into the living-room, looking around as if she wondered where everybody had gone, or she’d forgotten there’d been a crowd gathered for her baby’s funeral –– the crowd that had virtually accused her of murder. She started picking up paper plates, shovelling scraps into a plastic bag. She fumbled, dropped a clutch of dirty plates. Bits of meat pie and globs of tomato sauce splattered across the carpet.
‘Oh ... the carpet, oh no!’ My mother’s hands flew to her mouth and she stood, wide-eyed, staring at the stains.
‘Leave it, Eleanor, we’ll clear up,’ Dad said with a sigh, as if he knew it was pointless telling her that food stains on the carpet didn’t matter, especially when you’d just buried your baby girl.
He cupped a hand under Mum’s chin, tilted her face to his. ‘Jesus bloody Christ, what’s happened to you? What’ve you done?’ His hand dropped back to his side and he backed away from her as if she were some alien monster.
Once I heard the bedroom door close I said, ‘Mum didn’t suffocate Shelley, did she?’
‘Course she didn’t,’ Nanna Purvis said. ‘What a thing to say.’
‘I don’t know who did this to your sister,’ Dad said as we cleared away the food.
He didn’t directly say he did not think it was her, so I was certain my father was starting to believe –– like those mourners –– that it was my mother who’d suffocated Shelley.
But he didn’t come right out and say he thought it was her. Maybe because, like me, he so badly did not want that to be true.
***
‘I’m off down the pub,’ Dad said a few
hours later.
‘Again?’ I said. ‘Why don’t you stay here with us anymore?’
My father didn’t look at me, didn’t try to explain himself; didn’t call me “Princess”. He just shook his head and slid out the front door.
I knew he was in deep grief over Shelley, and worrying about my mother’s sadness –– not to mention her possible crime! –– and that a natter down the pub with his mates and Kev the barman about the cricket or footy cheered him up. But I was starting to bear a grudge against him for always escaping the misery of Gumtree Cottage when I could not.
I fed the animals, wandered about the house. Twilight fell, then darkness. I flopped onto my bed, exhausted but knowing there was no chance of sleep.
I could not believe my mother had suffocated Shelley; could not acknowledge something so horrifying.
Why would she do such a thing?
Because Shelley wasn’t a boy. Need a boy to make up for ...
I still did not know why she needed a boy. But even so, it didn’t make sense. She hadn’t suffocated me, a girl baby. So maybe she had gone crackers; just couldn’t bear Shelley’s crying any longer and had to put a stop to it.
The blood thudded through my heart, gushing from it, up through my neck, down my arms, tingling my fingertips.
I slid Real Life Crime from inside Dolly magazine and read about the Moors murderers: Myra Hindley and Ian Brady who murdered five children between 1963 and 1965. How terrible, to murder a child. Even more terrible than killing an adult who could defend themselves, unlike a child.
At the sound of low voices out in the street, I slid off the hateful bedspread and cracked open the Venetian blinds. Dad and Uncle Blackie were standing on the footpath facing each other like some kind of cowboy showdown.
‘You know that Carter bitch asked for it,’ Uncle Blackie was saying. ‘Thought I could count on you to defend me. Same as you tried to stand up for me against sleazy old Uncle Ralph ... may the bastard be rotting in Hell.’
In the pauses between their words and the whirring of the insects, I sensed a shiver beneath that hot air. Flick, flick went Dad’s cigarette lighter and a wisp of smoke spiralled into the night sky.