Three Summers

by Judith Clarke

  ‘What if what?’

  ‘Well, down in Sydney, what if people don’t like me there?’

  ‘Of course they’ll like you!’

  ‘Why should they? They’ll be Sydney people, mostly, I’ll probably seem weird to them.’

  ‘Of course you won’t seem weird.’

  Ruth had taken a cup from the draining board and dried it very carefully. ‘What if I’m not as clever as you and the teachers think I am? What if I only seem clever, because I’m up here? And when I’m down in Sydney, where everyone else is clever, I’m just ordinary? Even stupid?’

  ‘Ruth, don’t be silly! Of course you’re not stupid! What about your marks in the exams? Your scholarship? You beat a lot of Sydney people there.’

  Ruth had put the cup carefully down on the table. ‘Not stupid exactly,’ she said, ‘but—’ She’d flung the tea towel aside and stood there in a sudden storm of tears. ‘I don’t want to go! I don’t want to!’

  ‘Oh, sweetheart!’ Margaret May had put her arms round her and after a bit Ruth had stopped crying, and they’d gone on with the washing up and nothing else had been said. Last-minute nerves, that’s all, Margaret May had told herself. It had to be – if Ruth didn’t go it would be like – oh, it would be like those long-ago afternoons at the orphanage when, watching from a high window, Margaret May would see a car turn through the gates into the drive and really believe that it was someone kind come to take her away – and then it would only be the doctor, or one of the Sisters coming back from a visit, or someone to see Mother Evangeline.

  BEHIND her in the kitchen they were still talking. ‘And all that reading they had to do for their exams, poor loves,’ Milly Lachlan was saying to Merle, as she wiped the drops of water from the big silver vase. ‘All that studying. I know I’m an old softie but it seems wrong to me, somehow, when they’re so young.’

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t do for me,’ said Merle. ‘Life! That’s what you want! That’s what you need to be good at, not books! What good did books ever do anyone?’ She threw up her hands and waggled her fingers and shot a gleaming glance at Margaret May, who picked up a big silver vase of pink lilies and walked out of the kitchen, through the sacristy into the church, past the big statues with their staffs and shepherds crooks and crowns, past the long rows of polished pews, over to the little wooden Virgin standing patiently in her corner. ‘There you are,’ she said, placing the vase on the floor beside her, and then sitting down on the end of a pew to calm her angry feelings.

  People like Merle had a down on reading, she thought. No, it was more than a down, it was stronger: it was suspicion and distrust, even a kind of jealousy, as if they thought there might be some secret dangerous treasure in those pages other people read that they themselves could never find. If the nuns at her old school caught you reading on the verandah at lunchtime, they made you get up and go out to play. There’d been no books at the orphanage except for holy ones, and as she got older Margaret May could see why: they were bringing you up to be a skivvy and reading might give you ideas.

  ‘You don’t get paid to read,’ the housekeeper at Fortuna had said to her, snatching the old copy of Romeo and Juliet Margaret May had kept from school. She hadn’t got it back until she’d left the place to marry Don Gower.

  Don hadn’t liked her reading either. In the first few months when he’d caught her browsing through a couple of tatty old books she’d picked up at the church fete, he’d only wrinkled his nose and asked her if she didn’t have anything better to do. ‘Isn’t there some work you can get on with around the house?’

  Later on, it got more serious. ‘No reading when you’re minding the shop,’ he’d said. ‘People’ll come in and think you can’t be bothered with ’em.’

  He’d caught her twice. ‘Haven’t I told you about that?’ The third time, an afternoon of heavy rain when no one would have come in anyway, his face had grown dark as the heavy sky outside.

  She could see at once that he was in a mood. The way he went silent made you walk on tiptoe, and a panicky voice in your head kept crying silently, ‘Talk to me! Talk!’ He’d snatched the book and thrown it down. Wuthering Heights, it had been, and she’d thought how ‘wuthering’ was a good word for him, when he got a mood. ‘I thought I told you,’ he’d said, and he’d slapped her right across the face. ‘There,’ he’d said. ‘Now learn.’

  She hadn’t learned. And neither would her Ruthie, if she had anything to do with it.

  It had been another wuthering night when Don had died. He hadn’t spoken to any of them for two whole weeks. It had been raining for days; their eldest, Charlie, had left his muddy gumboots in the hall and Don had tripped right over them. He’d punched Charlie in the mouth and a tooth had fallen out, a front tooth, a second tooth, lying there like a little white shell on the hall floor. Don had drawn his fist back for another go and Margaret May had grabbed his arm and then he’d hit her too and gone rushing out into the rain. She’d gone after him.

  She wasn’t having him punch the children in the face like that! No, she wasn’t! She remembered the mud squelching under her feet as she followed him over the paddocks: his tall black shape at the edge of Skelly’s dam, the glimmer of water – then he was gone.

  She’d run for Father Joseph. There was a drowned calf in the water next to Don’s body and Father Joseph and Doc O’Hare had told Sergeant Lawson that was how it had happened: Don had seen it struggling, tried to pull it out, then he’d slipped and fallen in. Sergeant Lawson had looked at Margaret May’s bruised face but he hadn’t asked her anything, not even why Don had been out walking in the rain.

  Margaret May bowed her head into her hands. Oh, that her Ruth should ever have bruises on her face! And though she never said prayers, Margaret May couldn’t stop herself from whispering, ‘Please let her go to Sydney. Please let her go.’

  ‘Right where people walk!’ boomed a big voice in her ear, and she lifted her head and saw that Merle had followed her and was staring down at the vase of pink lilies.

  ‘What did you say, Merle?’

  ‘Right where people walk, that’s what I said. Right where they’ll kick it over.’ She swooped down on the vase.

  ‘Merle—’ Milly Lachlan had come over. She touched Merle lightly on the arm.

  Merle jerked round. ‘What?’ She clutched the vase of lilies to her chest, like a bridesmaid’s pink bouquet.

  ‘Leave it where it was,’ said Milly. Her voice was gentle, but it held authority, and Merle spluttered like a defiant child. ‘Why should I? It’s dangerous, a big vase like that on a polished floor! I’m putting it next to the altar, where it’s supposed to be, where decent people put it. These are altar vases.’ She swept off down the aisle, leaving a trail of bright drops behind her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Milly said to Margaret May.

  ‘It’s not your fault.’

  ‘No, but still, it’s – upsetting.’ Milly’s voice warmed and she added, ‘Margaret May, I’m so glad Ruth won her scholarship, I’m sure she’ll do well at the university, and come to no harm at all in Sydney. Don’t worry about what Father Joseph says, he’s a bit old-fashioned, that’s all. Ruth’s a lovely girl.’

  Margaret May’s face lit with pleasure. ‘And your Fee’s lovely too; Ruth thinks the world of her, it’s one of the things she’s sad about, how she’ll miss her very best friend.’

  When Margaret May had gone home, Milly brought a cloth from the kitchen and wiped up the trail of drops that Merle had made.

  Merle came and stood over her. ‘I’m surprised that one can show her face in a church,’ she said.

  Milly looked up. ‘Why shouldn’t she?’

  ‘Because she did it, you know.’

  Milly frowned. ‘Did what?’

  ‘Pushed her hubby in the dam.’

  Milly wrung the wet cloth into the bucket. She thought of that rainy night so long ago. She thought of that brute, Don Gower. She took the cloth out of the bucket and twisted it very hard. ‘That’s just a
n old tale, Merle,’ she said. Though the trouble with old tales was that they stayed around, becoming truth to those who knew no better.

  ‘And she’s not so holy, either,’ said Merle. ‘She’s up the spout and all!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This one here.’ Merle pointed to the little statue. She leaned down and patted the small bulge beneath the long plain shift. ‘In the family way, see?’

  ‘Well, what’s wrong with that?’ said Milly easily, and Merle, who’d wanted to make old Milly blush, was startled to find that her own large face had gone all hot and red and rude.

  twelve

  Merle Hogan was halfway home down Starlight Lane when a wind got up, a cold wind funnelling up from out of the south. The grass in the paddocks thrilled and shuddered, bushes bowed over, branches lashed against the sky, and though the sun was still up there, high and bright, and a smell of smoke lingered from the grassfire over at Toysen’s Flat, the air turned bitter cold. Crows called out like lost souls. ‘Shut up,’ Merle told them; she hated crows.

  On her left the wind roared in the grove of she-oaks, to the right sun sparkled like ice on the surface of Skelly’s dam. She stared across at the steep eroded banks and the dark water lapping far beneath them and muttered to herself, ‘She did it all right, of course she did.’ It gave you the creeps to think about: Margaret May sneaking after him across the paddocks in the dark and rain, her small face set with determination. Merle bet any money she wouldn’t have turned a hair when he went in.

  ‘Brrr,’ she shivered, wondering whether anyone at home would have had the sense to get a fire going. Not Miss Helen, that was for sure. If she was cold, Helen would simply go to bed and pull the covers up and everyone else could go hang. She quickened her pace – Skelly’s dam was a spooky place even in broad daylight, you’d never go there in the dark. There were stories that Don Gower’s ghost roamed, the drowned calf tucked beneath his arm. Merle almost ran that last stretch down the lane and then galloped across the back paddock, the wind whipping at her hair.

  THE minute she walked in the gate she knew there was something wrong. Len’s ute was skewed sideways in front of the house, the driver’s door hanging open. Merle’s heart lurched: had something happened? One of the kids? She charged up the front steps, and as she reached the top the wire door crashed open and little Bridie came rushing out at her. ‘Mum!’ she yelled. ‘Mum! Dad hit Helen! Dad hit Helen!’

  ‘It’s all right, love,’ Merle gasped, ‘it’s all right. Mum’s home now!’ She gave the little girl a quick hug and burst into the house, straight through to the kitchen because that was where the trouble was, she could feel it, a kind of filthy shudder in the air. When she appeared in the doorway, the three of them went still as statues, little Petey saucer-eyed, squeezed in between the pantry and the stove, hiding; Len and Helen next to the window, hardly a foot of space between them, and on Helen’s cheek the bright scarlet mark of a big broad hand.

  He’d never hit her. Helen had always been his favourite one. Sometimes it seemed to Merle that everyone in the world was someone’s favourite, except for her.

  ‘What’s happened? What’s going on? Why’d you hit her?’

  Len took a few steps towards her and threw out his hands. ‘Bloody little – slut—’ his voice almost broke on the word, ‘won’t tell me who he is!’

  ‘Who? What? Speak plain!’ But she knew. She’d had her suspicions for a while. Please God, let it be a good boy, she prayed silently, Let it be a good boy!

  ‘That old fool Herb Tully—’ Len began.

  ‘Herb Tully!’ The pinkness fled from Merle’s wind-whipped face. The shock of Herb Tully made her body quiver all over, as if she’d had a blow. ‘But—’ she protested, barely able to take it in, ‘but he’s old enough to be her father!’ She paused for a second, thinking about that, calculating, and then corrected, ‘He’s old enough to be her bloody grandfather!’

  Len stared at his wife and slapped himself on the forehead in sheer amazement at what she’d said. ‘Jesus, Merle! I didn’t mean old Herb was up to anything with her! Of course I didn’t!’

  From the corner by the window came something between a sob and a giggle, a muffled snorting sound. Len threw a furious glance towards it, and bawled out, ‘And you can just shut up over there, unless you want to feel the back of my hand again!’ His eyes had gone all small and red, Merle noticed, like when he had a cold.

  ‘So what’s old Herb Tully got to do with it, then?’ she prompted.

  ‘Herb Tully come up to me outside the pub, didn’t he? Told me he was takin’ a stroll through Perry’s orchard on Wednesday night and he saw—’ Len jerked his head wordlessly in Helen’s direction, as if he couldn’t bear to speak her name, ‘that one with some boy.’ He spat suddenly and shockingly down onto her best lino. ‘Under some boy, that’d be.’

  Merle ignored the spitting. ‘What business was it of Herb Tully’s, I’d like to know!’ she shrieked, venting her anger on the messenger. ‘He’s a bloody old woman!’

  ‘Yeah, love, I know he is. I told him so.’

  He had, too, more or less. ‘What business is it of yours?’ he’d demanded, and Herb had replied nervously, twirling his old hat in his hands, ‘Thought you’d want to know, Len. Before anything came of it, like, before—’

  Len had cut him short. ‘Who’s the boy?’

  Herb’s watery blue eyes had flickered. ‘I couldn’t say. It was dark under all them trees, and he was – I couldn’t see his face.’

  ‘How come you knew it was my girl then?’

  And then Herb had grinned – a weak, knowing grin that Len had wanted to wipe right off his face. ‘It was that red dress of hers,’ smirked Herb. ‘I’d know it anywhere!’

  ‘Would ya, ya mongrel!’ Len had shouted, and Herb had scuttled back a few steps.

  ‘Easy on, mate! How’d it get to be my fault?’

  ‘Ah, get out!’ Pushing Herb Tully aside, Len had rushed to his ute, jumped in and sped away. Now, in the privacy of his own kitchen, he roared, ‘Bloody red dress! Look at it, willya? Makes her look like a tart! Makes her look like she’s up for anything! And she probably got it too!’

  ‘Len!’ But she saw where he was pointing: the big rip in Helen’s dress. It was right up the front, the skirt nearly torn in two – Merle almost flew to the spot where Helen lounged against the window. She grabbed her by the arm.

  ‘Ow! Let go!’

  ‘Who’s the boy?’

  ‘Ow! You’re pinching me!’ Helen pulled away.

  ‘Who’s the boy, I said!’

  ‘I been asking her that!’ cried Len. ‘Waddya think I’ve been doin’ for the last bloody hour? She won’t say anything!’ His big chin wobbled, like he was going to cry. ‘But she’s goin’ to—’ He strode across to Helen and raised his hand.

  Merle pounced and grabbed it. ‘No more of that! Helen, who is it, now?’

  Helen stared out the window.

  ‘I’m gonna knock her for six if she doesn’t tell,’ promised Len. ‘I am, God help me!’

  Over on the mantel, the wireless had been playing soft music all this time. Now the six o’clock pips sounded, and the Angelus began. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.

  The two adults cringed on the word ‘womb’. The girl tossed her head. The funny thing was how they all said ‘Amen’ at the end, even Petey in his hidey-hole and little Bridie outside in the hall. Then it was back to business.

  ‘Who is he, Hellie?’ growled Merle through clenched teeth.

  Still she wouldn’t say. Only then Petey shrieked out, ‘It’s Tam Finn! Hellie’s in love with Tam Finn!’

  Merle’s heart dropped right down. Mother of God! Of all the boys in Barinjii, she had to go and pick that one!

  Len roared, ‘That crazy bugger!’

  They looked at each other. They both knew that if anything came of it, the Finns wouldn’t want to hear.


  ‘Jesus wept!’ moaned Len.

  ‘Hellie’s in love with Tam Finn!’ shrieked Petey again, and Helen rushed from the window, dragged him from his hiding place and whacked him over the head. Merle surged after her and slapped the unmarked cheek. ‘Now you’ve got a pair!’ she shrilled. ‘And just you remember this, my girl: if you’re up the spout, I’m not havin’ you in the house! And you needn’t think you’re goin’ to Sydney to get rid of it, either! It’ll be the nuns for you!’

  Helen rushed out into the hall, stumbling over little Bridie who’d been sitting just outside the door, a Little Golden Book held up to cover her face. Helen grabbed The Pokey Little Puppy and hurled it against the wall. Then she ran down the hall to her room and Bridie ran after her, sobbing.

  ‘Get out!’ yelled Helen, and slammed the door. She flung herself down on the bed. She hated Dad! And Mum as well! They could bloody mind their own business! It was her life, wasn’t it? She scrubbed at her eyes, she sniffed and rubbed her nose. Then she jumped up again and looked down at herself. She looked at the big rip in her dress – he’d done that on purpose, Tam Finn! She hated him, too!

  No, she didn’t.

  Suddenly she didn’t want to be in the room anymore. She ran to the window, pushed it up and jumped out into the windswept afternoon. She ran round the side and up past the sheds to where the old windmill creaked upon its rusty frame. ‘You kids keep away from that thing,’ Dad had warned them, ‘it’s gonna go one day!’

  ‘Too bad,’ muttered Helen, climbing up onto the crossbar, high as she could go, straddling it, legs dangling, wind rushing all round her. Too bad if she fell! Too bad if she got killed! They’d be sorry then! They’d blub in church and out in the graveyard, all right, Mum and Dad and the littlies! Blub and blub and blub! And Tam Finn – Helen went still, thinking what Tam Finn would do when he heard she’d died. Nothing, she decided. Nothing’s what he’d do. And he’d feel nothing. He was like that. One day, she thought, he’d marry a girl from a rich family who’d been to some posh private school and didn’t know a thing. They’d live out at Fortuna and have proper little kids – and Tam Finn would feel nothing for them, nothing at all. ‘So, yah! rich girl from a private school!’ cried Helen, ‘See how you like that!’ And she stuck her tongue out as far as it would go.