by Louise Allan
The front door was unlocked and I let myself in. ‘Hello?’ I called.
The house was dim and silent and smelt of old ashes. Although the weather was mild, the air felt chilled. Nora’s and Alf’s bedroom door was ajar and the bed was unmade, the chenille bedspread in a lump on the floor. In the lounge, a scrunched up sock poked furtively from under a chair, the cushions on the velvet couch were awry and a mountain of ashes had gathered in the fireplace. The piano still stood against the far wall, looking serene but lonely.
The whole house felt eerily still and cold, and as I walked down the hall, it chilled even more. It seemed to seep from the walls and the floors, eking from the very bones of the home. I left my suitcase in the spare room, then poked my head into the kitchen. It was deserted, too. The venetians were crooked and a jumble of dirty pots and plates were piled in the sink. An empty milk bottle sat on the bench beside a stained teatowel.
I headed out towards Grace’s bedroom. Her door was ajar and I pushed it open. Nora and Grace were inside.
‘Here you are!’ I said, and smiled.
They turned towards me and I saw the tension. Their faces were unmoving, their muscles rigid. They were standing at the foot of Grace’s bed, Grace with her back to the window. She’d grown taller and even more like her mother. Her eyes were wide and frightened, and her hands were behind her head, pulling her hair back off her face. It fanned out from her fingers in fine red-gold curls. Nora looked severe and stern. Her grey roots were growing out so a peppery line framed her forehead. She looked older than her thirty-nine years.
Nora faced Grace again. ‘Come here,’ she said. She held her hand up, and the silver blades of a pair of scissors flashed in the light. ‘I need to cut your hair.’
Grace shook her head and lifted her chin. ‘No.’ She stared defiantly at her mother.
‘What’s going on?’ I said, but neither of them seemed to hear.
Still holding her hair behind her head, Grace backed away from Nora towards the window. Her copper curls looked wispy and fine in the light.
‘Come here,’ said Nora again. She raised her hand, the black handles thick around her fingers and the metal blades glinting.
The back of my neck prickled and my heart throbbed in my ears. ‘Can someone tell me what’s going on?’
Nora didn’t look at me but lifted her hand higher, the scissors rising with it. Grace retreated further until she stood in front of the window. Nora advanced towards her, holding the scissors high. Grace leant back and the venetian blinds bent and crinkled behind her.
‘Nora, what are you doing?’ I said, stepping into the room.
Without answering, Nora leapt forward until she loomed over Grace, who inclined even further back until the blinds were flattened against the window, scraping against the glass. Nora reached out and grabbed Grace’s hair. Grace screamed as Nora yanked her head and jerked it towards her. Quick as a flash, Nora whipped the scissors across and cut through a chunk of hair. Grind-snip. The blades sounded crisp and metallic as they ground through her tresses.
Grace screamed.
‘Nora!’ I raced towards Grace, my hands outstretched.
Grace started to cry and grabbed at the back of her head, screaming again when she felt the blunt ends of her hair. She pulled the remaining locks to the front and shrieked at the sight of the sparse auburn waves in her hands.
I reached Grace and slid my arm around her. ‘What have you done?’ I yelled at Nora. ‘What have you done?’ My voice was a screech.
Grace’s shoulders were heaving and tears coursed down her cheeks. I held her tight, feeling the back of her head and the blunt ends of her hair. ‘Why?’ I said. ‘Why?’ I was shaking and I could feel the heat rising inside of me.
Nora was holding the long skein of Grace’s hair in her hand, the scissors in the other. She was trembling and the hair shook, the copper-gold spirals rippling in the light. A few wisps escaped and fluttered to the floor. Nora was staring at her hands, unblinking. She opened one hand and the scissors fell, landing on the carpet with a dull thud. Then she uncurled the fingers of her other hand and the hair floated to the floor, long ringlets scattering over the carpet and forming wavy copper lines over the olive-green.
‘I hate you,’ said Grace through gritted teeth. ‘I hate you.’
Nora said nothing. She was still holding her hands out, palms open, shaking violently.
‘Why?’ I repeated, glaring at Nora.
Nora didn’t answer but kept staring vacantly at her empty hands.
‘You’ve cut off my hair,’ Grace cried. ‘My hair.’ She was howling.
I glared at Nora. ‘For the life of me, I can’t understand why you’d do this.’
Nora was still staring at her open palms, her face blank, her eyes distant. Her shoulders slumped forward and she began to rock on her feet. Back and forth, back and forth. She clasped her hands together and clutched them to her chest, her eyes downcast. She twisted her fingers around each other and rubbed them together so her skin rasped. She kept rocking and rubbing, all the time staring down at the floor.
She’d lost weight since I’d last seen her, so her bones were almost visible through the cream of her blouse and the navy of her slacks. Her skin was pasty and sallow. She was still rocking and rubbing, and she looked pathetic and forlorn.
I watched Nora for a minute or so, then Grace’s cries lulled and she raised her head, too.
‘Nora?’ I said. I let Grace go and stepped towards her.
Nora’s mouth was gaping and she was still staring at the floor, rocking back and forth, her fingers writhing and rubbing. She no longer seemed aware of us or of her surroundings, as if she wasn’t inside her skin anymore. Her chin quivered and, slowly, she turned. In small, shallow steps, she left the room, her shoulders lowering with each step.
When she’d gone, Grace began to cry again. ‘I hate her. I hate her.’
I waited with Gracie until she’d settled, and then she told me what happened: Nora had found a note in the pocket of Grace’s school uniform. It was a letter from a farming boy, saying that he liked her hair because it was the same colour as their cows and shone in the sun. Nora had raced into Grace’s room and ripped the note up in front of her. She said she needed to protect Grace, that Grace shouldn’t be drawing attention to herself like that, that it would only get her into trouble. When Nora left, Grace heard her rummage about in the cutlery drawer before she returned with the scissors, sleeves rolled up and perspiration on her brow, and said she needed to cut Grace’s hair off.
‘And now I’m ugly,’ Grace sobbed.
I bent so I was level with her face and ran my hand over the jagged ends of her hair at the back. ‘No, you’re not. You’re still beautiful, Gracie. Nothing will ever take that away.’
‘But it was my hair. She cut my hair.’
‘I can fix it,’ I said. ‘Make it so you’ll be just as beautiful.’
She shook her head. ‘You won’t be able to.’
I picked up the brush and ran the bristles through the blunt, frizzing strands, and the remaining russet spirals. I held the long auburn locks in one hand and the scissors in the other, and I cut. Grind-snip. They were gone. The long locks drooped from my hand like used festive decorations.
‘Hold them, please,’ I said to Grace and draped the wavy skeins across her palm. She stared at them, sobbing quietly while I trimmed the rest of her hair all the way around.
Out in the hall, a cupboard door opened, then slow footsteps faded away.
When I’d finished cutting Grace’s hair, it sat just below her ears. It was blunt and cropped but neat and even. I ran my fingers over it and smoothed it down. Grace turned and she looked fragile and elf-like, her eyes bright with tears. Her hair framed her face and it unveiled her, making her look even more beautiful than before.
‘No one can take your beauty away, Gracie,’ I said.
She lowered her lids and shook her head.
I took the copper curls from her h
and, then stooped to pick up the ringlets littering the carpet at my feet. One by one I gathered them and draped each tress over my palm. When I’d collected all I could, I went into the lounge and extracted an old newspaper from the wood box. I spread one sheet of the newspaper out and laid the strands along the crease, then I folded the paper around them and slipped the package into my bag. I stood for a minute or two, slowing my breathing and swallowing the bitter taste at the back of my throat. Then I went to find Nora.
The cupboard at the end of the hall was open and I shut its doors as I passed. Nora wasn’t in her bedroom or the kitchen. I couldn’t find her in any of the rooms of the house. ‘Nora!’ I called as I searched the bathroom, then Ben’s room. I opened the door to Ted’s room, but it was untouched since I’d last been in there. My footsteps quickened as I darted through the house again, opening doors to rooms I’d already searched. ‘Nora! Nora!’
Grace crept from her room, her face still puffy and red. She didn’t know where her mother had gone, and Ben was out playing footy with friends, she said, so he wouldn’t be back for a couple of hours. I checked the front yard and the road. The cows in the paddock opposite raised their heads but the street was otherwise deserted.
The backyard was also empty. I walked its length, past the empty rotary clothesline, over the uneven ground and through the long grass. I checked inside the woodshed. It was big, with a pitched roof and rafters, and it smelt of woodchips. The firewood was stacked along one wall, and Alf’s lawn mower, a couple of spades and a hoe on the other. A coil of thick hemp rope hung from a nail on the wall. I closed the door and made my way to the back fence by the incinerator. I leant against the wooden railings, gazing towards the forest and Ben Craeg. All was still.
Alf returned about an hour later and I told him what had happened. ‘She’s probably just gone to visit a friend,’ he said, but he looked worried and kept glancing at his wristwatch. His face sobered when he saw Grace, her hair blunt and cropped, and her eyes puffy and red. He pulled her close and combed his fingers through her hair. ‘It’ll grow back,’ he said, and kissed the top of her head.
Ben came home not long after that and ran to see if the neighbours—the O’Reilly’s on one side and Myrtle Fisher on the other—had seen Nora. But no one had seen her, not for weeks. Alf drove along to Rex and Beryl’s, but they hadn’t heard from her either.
Rex and Beryl returned to the house with Alf, and I made a pot of tea. We sat around the dining table, restless and agitated and wondering what to do. Beryl checked Nora’s wardrobe to see if she’d taken any of her clothes, and Alf looked in the hall cupboard to see if any of the suitcases were missing.
Alf returned and stood in the doorway, rubbing his hands against his sides. His face was white, his eyes on mine. He cleared his throat. ‘My rifle’s missing.’
My stomach dropped. ‘No!’
‘I keep it in the hall cupboard,’ he said. ‘And it’s not there. I haven’t touched it for months.’
I started shaking. ‘No, no, no…She wouldn’t…’
‘We’ll find her, Ida,’ said Beryl. She took my hand and her arm went around my shoulder. ‘Don’t fret. We’ll find her. I know we will.’ She kept patting my hand and squeezing my shoulder.
‘We need help,’ said Rex, and he stood. ‘I’m going to get the sergeant.’
‘Good idea,’ said Beryl, as she rubbed my arm again. ‘The police’ll know what to do. They’ll find her.’
The house filled after that. Neighbours came and Sergeant Price. They huddled in the front yard and decided on a plan. They set out in twos and threes in all directions—over the paddocks, into the forest and down towards the river. Ben went with Alf, while Grace and I stayed at the house. Beryl sat close, still patting and squeezing my arm.
The sun sank lower over Ben Craeg and its craggy tips glowed golden. Dusk came and then darkness. The searchers ate before setting out again with their lamplights.
I couldn’t eat but kept myself busy heating soup, slicing bread and making cups of tea for the searchers. Beryl sat at the table wringing her hands, and every time she saw me, she said, ‘They’ll find her, Ida. Don’t fret. They’ll find her.’
In the lounge, the mantel clock chimed each hour that ticked by. Every now and then I went out and stood by the back door. The air was brisk and I pulled my cardigan more tightly around me. The sky was brilliant with stars and the moon was rising over Ben Craeg. The crickets were chirping, the owls hooting, and I could smell the forest. It was like any other night, except for the torchlights ricocheting across the paddock and the searchers calling Nora’s name.
The whole time my ears were pricked for the sound of a gunshot.
Then someone came running across the paddock, calling out something I couldn’t understand. I pushed the door open and ran outside, through the backyard, over the dips and mounds and clods of dirt. I clambered over the back fence and kept running towards the searchers clustered in the middle of the paddock. I was panting when I reached them, and they separated to let me through. I slowed my step, eyes ahead, then I stopped. A wonky lamplight was swaying and slowly making its way towards us.
As it neared, I saw Ben holding the kerosene lamp high and Alf on the other side, the rifle slung over his shoulder. Between them was Nora. Alf was holding her hand and elbow, half-carrying, half-walking her as they moved gently forward.
‘We’ve found her!’ he called.
When they reached me, Nora looked up. ‘I couldn’t do it,’ she said. ‘I didn’t have the guts.’
‘Thank God,’ I said.
Chapter 28
They took Nora to the General Hospital in the city for treatment. Alf went with her and I stayed out at Ben Craeg with Grace and Ben until he returned.
While he was gone I set to work. In the kitchen, I washed the dirty pots and scoured the stainless steel of the sink until it shone. I scrubbed the stains off the laminex, cleaned the crumbs from the toaster and ordered the canisters on the bench. Then I swept and mopped the floor.
In the lounge, I cleaned the fireplace and plumped the cushions. As I dusted the mantelpiece, I lifted the statue of the Holy Family to clean under it. The piano key was no longer there. I turned to the piano. It was coated in a thin layer of dust and its brass pedals were beginning to tarnish. I tried to open the lid but it didn’t budge.
For some reason, I felt overcome with sadness and had to sit down. I didn’t like the piano being neglected and the music being locked inside, and I had to sit for a few moments. Then I pulled myself together and ran the cloth over the wood, down the carved sides and in between the curls and ridges. I found the Brasso in the laundry and polished the pedals until they glinted like mirrors.
That night, the three of us sat at the blackwood table and ate shepherd’s pie. No one ate with relish, not even Ben.
‘Will Mum get better now?’ he said.
‘I hope so,’ I said, shaking salt and pepper over my dinner.
‘I don’t think she’ll get better,’ said Grace. She shook her head and her cropped hair swung about her ears as she spoke. The haircut had given it even more life. ‘Not ’til Ted comes home again.’
‘Will he come home again?’ said Ben.
‘I don’t think so,’ I said.
‘I wish he would,’ said Grace. ‘It’s not the same here without him.’
‘I don’t blame him for leaving,’ said Ben. ‘It’s horrible here.’ He took a mouthful.
‘It’s because your Mum’s sick,’ I said.
He finished chewing, swallowed and shook his head. ‘No. It’s always been horrible.’
When we’d finished dinner, Grace helped me clear the table and wash up, while Ben made a fire in the lounge. Then, Grace and I joined him. We sat in the velvet chairs and I picked up my knitting—a pair of mittens for Grace, in bottle green wool.
‘Can I ask you something?’ said Ben. He was squatting by the roaring fire.
‘Of course,’ I said.
‘Can I com
e to town and live with you?’ he said.
‘What about school?’ I said, setting the wool and needles in my lap.
‘I don’t care. I want to leave here as soon as I can.’
‘You’ve got to finish school,’ I said.
‘Then can I come?’ he said.
‘If you want.’
He turned back to face the fire. The flames were high and made wild patterns on his face.
‘I want to leave, too,’ said Grace. ‘Because I want to be a singer.’ She felt the crude ends of her hair. ‘When my hair’s grown back.’
I smiled. ‘You don’t need long hair to be a singer, Gracie.’
The next day while the kids were at school, I stripped the beds and washed the sheets in the twin-tub and hung them out. I spent the rest of the day in the garden, weeding the dandelions and the prickly thistles. Then I cut some of the remaining roses and set them in vases in all the rooms. Except for Ted’s bedroom. It hurt to go in there and see his bedspread unrumpled and his books still neatly stacked by his bed. I inhaled and the air smelt like a room, not like him.
Alf returned the following day. Rex had been minding the factory while Alf was away, but he needed to return to the sawmill.
‘She’s had a nervous breakdown,’ said Alf. ‘And she’s going to be in hospital a fair while.’ Then he faltered. ‘They’re going to give her shock treatment.’
He explained that it could take weeks, even months for her to get better. That she’d have a couple of treatments each week until she was stable enough to come home.
As he spoke, I felt a growing dread. I tried to hide it, but obviously I didn’t because Alf said, ‘No, I didn’t like the sound of it, either, but the doctor said this is the best treatment. It’ll fix her the quickest, and hopefully for good.’