The Other Girl

by C D Major

  Her eyes had immediately shot to Doctor Malone, who’d been wearing his jacket with the brown corduroy collar and the silver thing that he listened to your heart with round his neck. She remembered her chest leaping, her body getting all hot, as she didn’t want more treatment. She hadn’t mentioned being her for an age. She hadn’t said anything about her stepbrother who’d attacked her. Why would they choose now? She thought back to what she’d said last time, but it didn’t make any sense. It wasn’t fair.

  She stood in the open doorway until Doctor Malone summoned her forward. She waited in front of the big desk and watched the superintendent stand up. She couldn’t see his face; it was mostly in shadow, a large window behind him, but as she looked up she could make out a pair of spectacles on the end of his nose that he removed when he spoke.

  The man put out an arm and pointed to a stiff leather chair. She hadn’t understood until Doctor Malone told her to sit in it. Then she had struggled to get up on to it, the cushion squeaking as she moved. It had curved wooden arms and she hadn’t sat in a chair like that before. Then the man offered her a large round biscuit from a little china plate on the desk and she nodded and thanked him as she took the biscuit, and a lot of what he said at the start she couldn’t remember because the food there wasn’t very nice and she wasn’t given biscuits.

  The superintendent moved to the side of the desk and wasn’t looking at her as he spoke. He was talking about Hawke’s Bay in the North Island. Edith had cousins there; her mother’s brother lived there. She wondered if her mother’s brother was visiting her. But then why was she in the superintendent’s office?

  ‘You know there’s been an earthquake, Edith,’ he said as he tapped his glasses against the palm of his other hand.

  She nodded her head up and down. The nurses had been talking about it and they had felt something a few days before in the morning in the dayroom, as if something had made the earth tremble. She didn’t really know what an earthquake was but heard that the roads split and lots of buildings fell down. She’d heard one of the attendants say heavy stone things had dropped on people.

  ‘I’m afraid your parents and younger brother were victims. It’s been confirmed this morning.’

  She didn’t say anything. She imagined her parents and her baby brother Peter, who wouldn’t be a baby any more, he’d be a little boy, and a heavy stone falling on all of them. She blinked quickly, didn’t want to think about stone and buildings and earthquakes. The biscuit was sticking to the roof of her mouth.

  ‘Do you understand, Edith? They’re dead.’

  She nodded again, quickly. She didn’t want to be in the superintendent’s office any more, and she didn’t want to be in the stupid chair. She looked over at Doctor Malone who had been watching her, his eyes smaller, his hands frozen in front of him as if he was about to catch something. When she looked at him he didn’t lower his hands; he stepped forward as if about to grab her. ‘Edith, do you understand what the superintendent is telling you?’

  ‘They’ve died.’

  As she said the words, she realised she did know what he’d told her. Her parents and her little brother were dead because of the earthquake, because they’d fallen down in a split in the road, down, down, down, or been squashed by a building. They were gone. She moved on the leather, the backs of her legs sticking to the seat.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ the superintendent said. ‘We’ll let you know when the funeral is, although of course you won’t be able to go.’

  She’d looked up then. ‘Go?’ She imagined leaving Seacliff, walking down the long driveway, past the neat borders, flowers in every colour, past the gates and the man who sat in the little hut by them, down to the train station and away on the train, the steam billowing in a cloud as the whistle blew loud and so clear she could hear it from her bed on the ward.

  ‘To the funeral,’ the superintendent confirmed. ‘Right now, I’m going to be getting on with some work, so, Doctor, if you could escort Miss Garrett back to the dayroom, that will be all.’

  She allowed Doctor Malone to help her off the leather seat, walked back along the corridor with him, his shiny shoes enormous next to her feet; she stared at those shoes as they walked in silence, just the sound of his heavy soles, on stone, on wood and then stopping outside the dayroom. Everything felt different, as if she and Doctor Malone were the only people left. He put a hand on her shoulder and she felt her body automatically lean away, imagining that hand securing the pads on the sides of her head. He removed it, muttering something under his breath; his moustache, browner then, only flecked with grey, moving. She stared at him, not hearing the words, and was then ushered inside to a waiting nurse.

  Her parents were her only visitors. They had come three times, on her birthdays, and now she didn’t know when her birthday was. After the earthquake no one came. She did think of her parents sometimes. She could remember her mother most clearly; she had flushed cheeks and a voice that always sounded slightly out of breath. She had made her hot milk before bed and had brushed her curly hair every morning in long strokes till it shone. Her father had talked about God a lot; he spoke at the front of the church under the big wooden cross and Mother and her would watch him from the front pew. At home he would always carry a Bible around with him but he never opened it when he quoted from it; he knew it from in his head.

  Bernie was desperate to look her best, was wiping at her face, licking her thumb and scrubbing at her skin, wanting to get rid of any marks. She had got like this before, got Edith to comb her hair, pin it back, smooth it until she stood, shoulders back, chin lifted, asking her to say something, to tell her she looked perfect. Last time Edith had waited with her outside on the stone bench as the visitors trooped past. They’d stayed there until the hubbub of voices returned, after a short time, away from the dayroom; parcels handed over, promises made, they swarmed back past in a group, pace quick until they got far enough away down the drive and felt they could slow up. Bernie hadn’t wanted to move from that bench, just in case.

  Now that was all forgotten and she grinned at Edith, eyes flashing. ‘Will you come?’ she asked, and Edith found herself nodding in agreement, the heavy weight inside her lightening a fraction.

  ‘Of course, if you like.’

  ‘I’m nervous.’ Bernie laughed, holding her stomach with two hands as she watched Edith slip on her shoes.

  She went ahead and Edith followed, looking back once at the small room.

  They sat on one of the benches that had been pushed back against the wall of the dayroom, like when they had dances sometimes and you had to wait there to be asked. One time, Franklin the attendant who smirked and smiled at her with rubbery lips asked her. She’d been the only one on the bench and she hadn’t wanted to dance with him and his hands were all slippy and hot but she’d had to.

  They were waiting now and the dayroom started to fill up. Edith saw Martha sitting on the edge of one of the red, vinyl-covered chairs. A small, older woman with dark-brown hair with strands of grey sat opposite and a boy, probably about five or six, squirmed in a chair next to her. He was holding a wooden train carriage in one hand and running the wheels up and down one table leg. Martha’s face was transformed; Edith thought she looked almost pretty as she leaned over to talk to the boy, reaching to stroke his cheek.

  Donna was some way off on the other side of the room, leaning, one foot up against the wall, staring at Martha and the boy; looking for all the world as if she was hungry, as if she wanted to gobble them both up.

  Shirley crossed the room, sat down opposite an older couple, spilling out over her chair as she started to cry almost immediately, head down in her thick arms, getting louder. Nurse Shaw came in, talked to the group quietly and Shirley got even louder until most of the room were watching. The woman inclined her head back, blinking at the ceiling as if to stem tears; the man went to stand as the nurse tried to quieten Shirley, one hand circling her back.

  There was no Patricia today. Edith wondered wheth
er she would still run into her mother’s arms, whether the new Patricia knew she had a mother at all. She would have hated to see the dayroom all messed up. But then she remembered new Patricia wouldn’t notice anything different about the chairs and she felt the same mood descend on her that she’d woken with that morning, as if the grey sky outside was inside her head, heavy and fat with unshed tears.

  There was Julia with the same glum look; she wasn’t reacting to the man sitting opposite her keeping up a one-sided conversation, looking at the clock on the wall and going on and on. He could have been the same age as her, had the same-shaped nose, the same narrow face.

  The voices were low with the occasional muffled sob or weary sigh. Martha was still talking to the little boy, leaning across the table. Edith looked around and caught Donna’s glare. Even in a room of people it made her breath catch in her throat, her hands cold. Donna pushed herself off the wall and stepped across the room to the door. Edith’s eyes didn’t leave her. It was only when she stepped outside that she felt the air rush back into her body, her muscles unclench. She tried not to think of the night before, the certainty that Donna had been there. Would she ever be able to close her eyes, feel safe again?

  Bernie hadn’t noticed; she was still jerking her head over to the door, the window and back as if her parents were about to rush in, apologise for their lateness, take a seat at one of the square tables.

  The hands of the clock dragged round and they watched as the first visitor scraped back his chair, his wife in her Sunday best following, square handbag held out in front of her like a shield. This seemed to be the signal to other visitors, and gradually the room emptied until it was just in-patients and nurses scattered around the room. Bernie was silent.

  ‘I’m sure they’ll come next time,’ Edith reassured her, a second too late.

  Bernie paused for a moment and then gave her a watery smile. ‘You’re right.’ She nodded. ‘They’ll be planning to come for my birthday.’ She snuck her hand into Edith’s and squeezed.

  Edith smiled back at her. ‘Of course. That’s it.’

  Chapter 25

  NOW

  Declan didn’t know why he was going there. It was his day off; he barely had one a month. He tried to convince himself he was an explorer, heading north for the sheer joy of the coastal road and the freedom of release for a whole day. The Bedford truck belonged to the hospital. He stood watching the man fill the tank with the rationed amount, the copper bristles of his beard bright in the weak sunshine, chewing on something, a bored faraway look, one hand held out for the money.

  Back on the road he had the window down, his elbow up, shirtsleeves rolled over his forearms. In the mirror he watched the turrets and towers of Seacliff disappear in the distance and, as the breeze entered the truck, whipping at his face and hair, he had a sudden urge to holler, to cry out, smacking his hand on the steering wheel instead. He was free. He glanced for a second at the empty passenger seat, imagining for a moment someone else sitting there. A corkscrew head of curls appeared in his consciousness and he shook his head as if trying to shake off the image.

  It wasn’t long before the buildings were clustered closer together and he was driving into the centre of Oamaru, passing hand-painted signs to the harbour, crude line drawings, a faded poster for boat trips, sightings of blue penguins promised.

  He parked the truck, taking an age to do it, unused to such a big vehicle, back and forward inch by inch, feeling heat in his face as he finally switched the engine off. Stepping out and stretching he looked up to see fat clouds butting up against each other, the sky a blend of different shades of grey, the sun all but hidden. He wrapped his coat around himself, picked up the notepad from the passenger seat and put on his hat.

  He checked the rough sketch he had made that morning, reread some of the details from Edith’s admission statement: vague, childish sentences. The ‘house with the red roof’, ‘the house with the dunny out back’, the ‘house by the sea’. He felt a small wave of hopelessness wash over him as he looked across the road at large stone buildings, people moving past on the pavements, shops, barbers, tobacconists; overwhelmed with where to begin.

  A woman with a basket in one hand and a harried expression on her face was approaching. Too young, he thought, as he cleared his throat, rehearsing already how best to engage a stranger. He skirted round her, feeling more and more foolish with each step. He could be drinking coffee in Dunedin, reading the papers; not here, wandering streets that were alien to him, pursuing a niggling, impossible thought.

  An elderly man in a cloth cap was sitting on a bench outside the tobacconist’s, his two hands resting on his thighs as if waiting for something to happen. Declan stepped into the road and headed towards him.

  The man looked up as he approached.

  Declan indicated the bench. ‘Do you mind?’

  The man neither nodded nor shook his head.

  Declan sat, his body angled towards the man. ‘It might rain,’ he began, cursing his lack of originality as the elderly man agreed with a look at the sky and a curt nod.

  He needed to dive in, he thought. He needed to ask him. It wasn’t strange. He didn’t need to explain why. He could be anyone looking for a distant relative.

  ‘I’m looking for someone – a family who lived in this area, or live here still,’ he added, knowing the words were coming out too quickly.

  The man turned towards him a little, nodding his head towards a row of shops. ‘The wife’s in buying a hat. She has so many hats. I told her there’s a war on but . . .’ He shrugged, leaving Declan to guess at the rest of the sentence.

  Declan nodded, trying to convey sympathy.

  ‘So, go on,’ the elderly man continued, as if Declan was simple.

  ‘There was a woman, Nina. She lived in Oamaru in the 1920s. In a house with a red roof,’ he added, feeling his tongue thick in his mouth. ‘A house near the sea.’

  Even as he heard the words leave his mouth, he knew it was hopeless. The elderly man had already pursed his lips together, was slowly shaking his head from side to side. ‘Don’t know a Nina.’

  ‘And the um . . . the red roof?’ Declan added in a less confident voice.

  The man screwed up his face, his skin weathered as if he was often outside. ‘Lots of them.’

  Declan was already making to leave.

  The man shifted on the bench. ‘You could ask her.’ He indicated a woman emerging from a shop door.

  She had already started talking as she made her way across the road. ‘They are getting new stock in on Tuesday so he says I should see him then. They’ve got some things being delivered from Auckland . . .’ She didn’t acknowledge Declan, who had stood and was awkwardly turning the rim of his hat around in his hands.

  The elderly man cut her off with a raised hand. ‘Bronwyn, this young man is looking for a family.’

  Bronwyn stopped short, her amber eyes turned on Declan, one of the pupils a little off-centre so he wasn’t absolutely sure where he should look. He found himself flustered, forgetting the details, fumbling for the notepad. ‘Thank you, sir, madam. Yes, I was wondering if you’ve ever known a woman named Nina?’

  ‘I have.’ The woman said it slowly, as if nervous about revealing as much, but then, as if she couldn’t resist, she blurted, ‘I know two, in fact . . .’

  Declan felt something inside him lift. He licked his lips.

  ‘Although one died; must have been three years ago now because we were living in Brooker Street. Was that three years ago?’

  The man shrugged. ‘All merges together now. I still think we’re in our forties and I could last a full game of rugby.’

  The woman ignored him and looked Declan up and down as if assessing whether to continue to help him. ‘Are you a relation?’ One eyebrow arched as she asked the question.

  ‘A . . . a friend of mine is,’ he said, slowly. ‘Distantly,’ he added, hoping the lie didn’t show. He was a dreadful liar. He tried to look at the woman, but the
eye had thrown him off balance again and he knew he was looking nervous. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Well, Nina Jones lived here all her life . . .’

  ‘How old was Mrs Jones?’

  ‘Miss. She never married. Rumours were that she had a sweetheart once, but nothing came of it . . .’

  Declan tried to look interested, doubting this was the right woman, if she had never married.

  ‘She must have been born in the 1870s sometime; her brother was the editor of the Oamaru Mail. They printed one of your letters, dear, do you remember?’

  Her husband didn’t have time to react before she continued, ‘She was tiny and she lived in one of the houses on Willow Road. She used to run a committee on the preservation of the precinc—’

  Declan tried to cut her off, but it seemed she was now determined to share every detail of this deceased woman’s life. Finally, after another few facts, Declan was able to say, ‘She isn’t the right age. The woman I’m looking for would now be in her fifties or thereabouts, and she would have had children.’

  The woman opened, then closed her mouth again. ‘Fifties.’

  Declan nodded. ‘She lived in a house with a red roof and was possibly a seamstress. She would make clothes.’

  ‘A lot of us make our own clothes,’ the woman said with another arch of the eyebrow.

  Declan was getting nowhere fast. ‘Do you remember much about the other Nina?’

  The woman raised her voice a fraction, not hiding her annoyance at Declan’s interruption. ‘She was here a few years, married, but then he left and she lived with a man, Rowland – you remember’ – she turned to look at her husband – ‘quite the scandal, although we didn’t move in those circles; they weren’t the right sort, if you understand me. She did do some mending for people I knew.’

  Declan felt the breath suspended in his body for a moment. This woman sounded like a possible match. ‘What age was she?’