The Silence

by Susan Allott

  “Why not, Joe? Why keep something like that?”

  “Will you shut up about it?”

  “Can’t you see how it would look?”

  “Can’t you shut up for God’s sake? What do I have to do to make you drop it?”

  Isla pulls her bedroom door shut with deliberate force. Her parents fall quiet. She waits in the hallway, listening, aware they know she’s there. If there’s a scuffle or a cry she’ll go in; if there isn’t she’ll go back to bed and listen out for noises, sleeping lightly, scared for them both. How many times has she done this? Her dad says something and she tenses, ready to go in and hold him by the arms, stand between them, make them stop. She will scream if she has to. She will pry them apart. She remembers beating her fists against her father’s back, the solidity of him. Her mother crying. His remorse, his regret, and the calm it brought with it. Scott crying.

  It’s not one memory. She knows there must be more, packaged inside. Like boxes in boxes in boxes.

  “It’s getting late,” her dad says, and his voice is warm, reasonable.

  “I’m going to read awhile,” Louisa says. “Don’t wait for me.”

  Isla turns back down the hall toward the kitchen. Her dad glances up at her as he pushes open the bathroom door, pulls the cord for the light. A potent stare, brief but malign. She steps away from him, into the dark of the kitchen.

  20

  Sydney, 1967

  The heat showed no sign of breaking. Mandy stood at the top of the coastal path and looked out to the horizon. The sky was a rich blue. The ocean was still, just the odd fleck of foam on its surface, a small fringe of white at the water’s edge. This weather would hold awhile yet, she thought. Weeks of this ahead of us. Months, even.

  Isla would have wanted to swim today. She’d have taken her snorkel out to look at the fish. Might have collected some shells too, in her bucket, had a poke around in the rock pools to see what she could find among the coral and seaweed. Always in hope of an octopus, that girl. Or a shark. Down on the beach, a small boy and his mum were kicking around a slightly deflated beach ball. An older man came striding out of the water, shaking himself off like a dog: Mr. Harper from the chemist on Bridge Street, it looked like, taking his regular lunch-hour swim. A few older kids were climbing around on the flat boulders at the edge of the bay, jumping in and out of the shallow pools. They were laughing, but she could barely hear them from up here. She hadn’t been down to the beach at all in the fortnight since Isla left. Hadn’t felt like it. It did look good down there, but.

  She felt the sun high over her head as she began the walk down the coastal path. The ocean was more inviting the closer she got. She rarely swam—didn’t like the thought of what might be out there—but on days like this you could see the appeal. She threw her straw hat onto the sand and kicked off her sandals. The sand was baking and there was almost no breeze. She rolled her jeans up and wet her feet in the shallows. The water was so cool and calm. She walked in past her knees, leaned over, splashed her face and arms, ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it back from her face, away from her neck. Her jeans were wet now so she went deeper, lifting her blouse to keep it dry. The sand dipped away beneath her feet and she was soaked up to her waist before she knew it. She laughed. What the hell.

  “Nice day for a swim.”

  She turned to see Joe standing at the shoreline in his work clothes. His shirt gaped open at the neck. The hems of his suit pants were dragging in the sand. She felt ridiculous suddenly. She waded toward him.

  “The water’s lovely.” She smiled at him, but he didn’t respond. He might have been scowling at her, or he might have been squinting in the sun. “Why aren’t you at work?”

  “Couldn’t face it. Got halfway there and came back.”

  She stood beside him. “Forgot my swimsuit,” she said, looking down at her wet jeans.

  “I followed you down,” he said. “Saw you from my place.”

  She sat on the sand, stretched her arms out behind her, and turned her face to the sun. Joe pulled off his shoes and socks, left them on the dry sand, and sat beside her with his feet in the shallows. His right hand was bandaged, tightly wrapped around his knuckles and fastened at the wrist with a safety pin. She wondered if he’d done it himself or if he’d seen a doctor. If he’d made the hole in his lounge room wall any bigger.

  “How you going?”

  He swallowed and frowned at the horizon. “She cleaned out the savings account. The whole lot.”

  Mandy dragged her heels through the wet sand and watched the two shallow channels fill back up with water. “I guess it costs a lot of money to fly to England.”

  The sagging beach ball landed heavily at her side. She threw it back to the child and noticed, as she drew her arm back, that she’d worn her watch in the water. The delicate second hand had stopped ticking. It showed twelve-thirty, just gone. She held it to her ear. Silence.

  “I couldn’t even follow them over there if I wanted to,” he said. “Not without selling the house.” He ran his hands over his face, grains of sand mixing with sweat and dirt. “She left her job too. Gave them notice.”

  “I know.” She glanced at him. “Sorry. I didn’t want to say.”

  “Have you heard from her since she left?”

  Mandy nodded. “Just a quick call. She wasn’t on long. Bad connection.”

  He stared hard at the side of her face. “What did she say, then?” He threw a small rock into the shallows. “Did you call her?”

  “I did. I called her at her mum’s.”

  “And—?”

  She kept her eyes on the horizon. He was dying beside her and she didn’t want to see it. “She said it was great to be back in England, Joe. That’s what she said. I’m sorry.”

  The tide was coming in. A wave broke over their feet and soaked them both up to the knees. Neither of them moved. She felt the heat of the sun on the back of her neck. Her hair was dry now and her skin was tight from the salt.

  “I’m going to head back up to the house,” she said. “Fix myself a drink and something to eat.”

  When he didn’t reply, she stood and picked her hat up off the sand.

  “Steve’s away,” she said, and she waited for him to turn around. “He’ll be gone a day or two.”

  Joe stood, clumsily, and brushed the sand from his clothes.

  In the bedroom Mandy drew the curtains against the afternoon sun. She’d left Joe by himself in the kitchen with a beer. He wasn’t too good with his own company right now, but still she sat down on the bed and lit a cigarette. The thing she’d wanted to happen was happening. It had a weighted feel to it, like water flowing downstream. She exhaled slowly and watched the smoke thicken and descend.

  Her jeans were almost dry, but they were stiff with salt and she was sore where they’d rubbed against her skin. She stepped out of them into a clean pair, turned in front of the mirror to check that she looked nice but not too nice, so he wouldn’t think she’d made an effort for him. On the dresser a framed photograph of her dad looked back at her. She turned it to face the wall.

  From the kitchen she heard Joe shift in his chair, put his beer bottle down on the table, clear his throat. Her heart was going at a quick, nervous gallop. She almost wanted to back out of this, to send him home. But the stronger want was to let it happen, to know that pleasure with him. She couldn’t think beyond it.

  He looked up at her as she walked through to the kitchen and put the ashtray down on the table.

  “Another beer?” she asked.

  “Thanks.”

  She took one for herself, as an afterthought. Joe looked a wreck in his damp, sandy work clothes. His face was sunburned around the hairline and his eyes were bloodshot. He’d barely spoken since they left the beach. She pushed the cigarette packet across the table and he took one, lit it, and sat back in his chair.

  “I trusted her,” he said, lifting the bottle to his mouth. “Trusted her totally.”

  “’Course you
did. Why wouldn’t you?”

  “I wish I hadn’t. I might have seen this coming. Might have stopped it coming to this.”

  “You can’t go back and change what’s happened, Joe.”

  He crushed his cigarette out. “The car was for her. I’d arranged for her to have driving lessons. It was going to be a surprise. I was hoping she’d pass her test before the baby came. And this is how she repays me.”

  She reached her leg out under the table and rested her bare foot against his knee, holding it there until he was still. “You don’t deserve this,” she said. “The way she’s treated you. It’s not right.”

  For a moment he didn’t react. Mandy had never made a pass at a man in her life. If he rejected her, she would die.

  Slowly, he wrapped his good hand around her foot and pulled it into his lap. He moved his thumb between her toes. The pleasure of it passed through her. She gripped the chair.

  “Can I ask you something, Mandy?”

  She swallowed. “What is it?”

  “Do you think she’s left me?” He moved his thumb over her instep, up and down. “I mean, has she really left me? Or is she trying to hurt me?”

  “I don’t know.” She moved to the edge of her seat to let him run his hand over her calf. “Both, maybe.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “You deserve better, Joe.”

  He looked up at her. “Are you sure, Mandy? About this?”

  She pulled her foot away. He reached across the table to hold her hand. He’d taken his wedding ring off, she noticed. A white stripe crossed his finger where it had been. “No one’s going to get hurt.” She smiled at him and wondered if this was another lie; if this would be the lie that blew the whole thing apart.

  He took both her hands and pulled her from her chair.

  21

  Ivanhoe, New South Wales, 1967

  Steve’s back ached as he climbed out of the truck. He slammed the door and the kids down by the creek scattered, into the bush and gone, quick as rabbits. The dog was tied up this time, but it watched him, stretching its leash and snarling as he knocked on the door. He stared it down and it sat, bared its teeth.

  “You remember me, don’t you?” he said to the dog. His voice sounded hollow. He hadn’t spoken all day. “You remember me,” he repeated, and it growled from the base of its throat.

  He was giving the dog stink eye when the door opened. A young woman peered out from inside, and he almost didn’t turn quick enough to stop her closing it in his face. He jammed his boot in the door. She pushed against him from the inside and rammed the door with her shoulder, calling him every name she could think of, telling him to go to hell, get off her property, leave her alone. The dog barked, pulling hard on its leash. Inside the house, the baby cried.

  He held the door steady with one hand and pushed against her weight. It gave easily and she took a few steps back, stood there looking at him with real fear in her face. He’d seen it before. He was her worst nightmare come to life.

  “Sorry,” he said. “You’re going to have to let me in.”

  She turned to look at the child. “Please don’t take him.” The fight had gone out of her. “Please. I beg of you.”

  He noticed then that she was younger than he’d thought. Sixteen, maybe. “You his mum?”

  She nodded. “My grandpa said you’d be back. He warned me, after you came for Dora.”

  “The boy will be looked after,” he said, and the words sickened him. “He’ll get a good start in life.”

  “That’s a lie.” She pointed her finger at his face. “My auntie was taken as a kid. She told me what it’s like.”

  The baby’s cries lifted as he shut the door behind him. She picked the child up, held him tight, cried silently with her face pressed against his. This was the one that would break him, he thought; he’d known it since he first set eyes on that child. This one would finish him.

  “It won’t be like that,” he told her.

  She turned from him and her body shook uncontrollably; her cries became a moan. He stepped closer and summoned the poison for the last time. The last time.

  “I promise you, it won’t be like that. I’ll see to it,” he said, and he reached for the boy.

  22

  Leeds, 1967

  Isla had a sore throat and her nose was stuffed up. She had been sent to bed because she was sick. It was cold in this bed and she suspected it wasn’t bedtime. It was hard to tell because it was always dark in England. The blankets were thin and she didn’t like the touch of them. They were making her more sick. She had left her Digby bear behind in Australia, and she was starting to think she might never get to hold Andrea Walker’s kitten. She had been nice to Andrea all those weeks for no reason.

  Someone put a light on in the hall. The flowers in the wallpaper bloomed, big and ugly, yellow and brown. When Isla shut her eyes, the flowers were still there, growing big and close then shrinking back. Isla watched with her eyes shut to see if the yellow flowers would push the brown ones away, but new colors started growing, green and then pink, with fat petals like tongues. There was a brick inside the bones of her head. She couldn’t move because the brick was heavy and hurting. She lay still. From outside she could hear Grandma’s voice, “Didn’t I try to tell you?”

  “Did you?” Mummy said.

  “You’d have a degree by now. A career.”

  “I know.”

  “I said at the time, he’s no good.”

  “You don’t know him, Mum.”

  Grandma snorted. “I’ll knock the bejesus out of him, so I will.”

  Grandma’s words repeated in Isla’s head without meaning. She liked Grandma because she was from somewhere called Island. Grandma did not like England much either. And she liked you even when she was shouting. She was only cranky in her voice. If you made a face, she would laugh and make a face back.

  “He’s not all bad,” Mummy said. “He can be wonderful.”

  “Sure, can’t they all,” Grandma said.

  Isla sat up and the brick in her head banged against her bones. “Mum!”

  The flowers were turning, their petals growing fat and leathery. She didn’t know if her eyes were shut or not. It was hot in this bed, very hot, making her skin wet. The brick was broken. It had smashed into bits and all the pieces of brick were sharp in her head, her neck, her back. Isla sat on the edge of the bed and maybe she was dreaming again. It was hard to tell. The flowers poked their tongues at her. “Mum!”

  The door opened.

  “Mandy?” She knew it couldn’t be Mandy, but her name was in her mouth. “Mandy?”

  “It’s me, darling. It’s Mummy.”

  Isla tried not to cry. “I’m hot.”

  She lay back down, and her mum put her hand on her forehead. Her mum could tell about the brick. She pushed the covers away and her hands were quick.

  “Oh God, you’re burning up.”

  Mandy always smiled when you made a face, and she made faces back. She did good faces and didn’t shout much. When Isla tried to see Mandy’s face, she saw huge flowers with tongues lolling, green and pink, yellow and brown.

  23

  Sydney, 1997

  It’s raining again by the time Isla reaches the back of the yard. The ocean below is gray and heaving. She stands under the tea trees and decides she won’t swim, after all. She feels cold, although the air is warm. Her shoes are letting in water. She’s about to turn back to the house when she sees a woman on the beach, wading out of the sea, tall and upright despite the waves crashing against her. Older than her, Isla thinks, but in better shape. The woman picks her towel up from the sand and dries herself off, shaking the water from her hair. Isla recognizes the floral-patterned beach towel and then she recognizes her mother: the new short hairstyle and the plain black swimsuit, the good posture. Her admiration drops away and she is filled with hate, so cold and quick it turns her stomach. She wants to kick her across a room.

  She stays where she
is, watching her mum walk over the sand with the towel over one shoulder, scaling the path without pausing to check her footing. She sees her face as she draws closer: preoccupied, frowning. Isla raises a hand and waves. She doesn’t truly hate her, does she? Maybe she does. Maybe she always has.

  “Hey,” Louisa calls out. “Are you going to swim?”

  “No. Looks cold.”

  “It’s not too bad. Warmer than this rain.” She’s barefoot and her skin is damp. Despite the climb from the beach, she is barely out of breath.

  “I think I’ll leave it,” Isla says.

  They stand together under the trees, looking out at the yard. The bunting droops low across the back of the house.

  “Not like the British rain,” Louisa says. “The British rain got under your skin. I don’t think I dried out till I’d been here a year.”

  “Do you miss it?”

  “England?” Louisa laughs. “Not anymore. I can’t imagine why I ever wanted to go back.”

  They watch the rain fall. Isla has heard the story many times of how her mum, overcome with homesickness, ran back to England with Isla when she was small. Only to find when she got there that it wasn’t home anymore. That she’d made an awful mistake. And Joe had begged her to come home, saying he couldn’t live without her. So the story goes. Isla’s memories of her time in her grandmother’s house are of snowdrifts and frozen pipes; wind blowing down the chimneys, filling the rooms with smoke. Missing her dad.

  “How did you do it?” Isla asks. “The time we went to England.”

  The ocean roars behind them. “What do you mean?”

  “How did you pay for the flights? You can’t have earned much back then.”

  Her mum bristles beside her and Isla looks down at her feet, the water seeping into her old canvas shoes. This is not the correct version of the story. This is its dark underbelly, the chapter that was scrapped.