by Kim Lock
Fear not, dry your tears.
And nothing more. No name, no dates. Ever since they moved in and began walking through the graveyard, it had perplexed them
‘I have a new theory on this fellow,’ Thomas said.
‘What is it this time?’
‘He was a pirate. A British sailor turned mutineer against a cantankerous captain. During a skirmish at sea he leapt overboard and joined a pirate ship. So when he was killed by British sailors, they couldn’t bring themselves not to bury him on consecrated ground, given his heritage. But,’ he paused and shook his head grimly, ‘they didn’t want to honour him too much because . . . well, he was a pirate.’
Elsie’s laughter floated up into the branches, and he loved her for it. ‘That’s the most creative theory so far.’ Her face turned introspective again. ‘I asked the postmistress,’ she said. ‘No one knows for certain, but there’s a common rumour.’
‘Ah, of course there is gossip.’ As a rule, Thomas tried not to involve himself with matters of gossip and hearsay, much preferring instead the upright avenues of fact and personal privacy.
‘Apparently no one knows who “he” was, or when he lived and died. But . . .’
‘But?’ Darn it, he was curious.
‘Rumour has it, he was an illegitimate son of a servant woman, fathered by a prominent local councilman. He was born deformed and kept hidden away from the world until he died.’
Thomas whistled. ‘What a stretch of imagination.’
Elsie turned to him with a grin. ‘It might only be a tale, but it’s believable, don’t you think?’
‘Nonsense,’ he said with a laugh. ‘Nobody would do something like that.’
‘Servant women often had children to their masters.’
‘Well, maybe –’
‘And infants can be born with all kinds of malformations.’
‘Good lord, Else –’
‘Well?’ She gave him a mysterious smile and tugged him close to her. He stumbled over a tree root and their bodies bumped together. ‘Why is it so hard to believe?’ she said softly, her breath on his cheek. She kissed him, and Thomas quickly forgot about gossip.
10
Elsie joined Mrs Watson’s Wednesday knitting group. Though Gloria warned her that she might find the high standard quite a challenge! in actual fact Elsie found the other ladies in the group to be of similar skill to herself. But what mattered more was that they were pleasant company. Good knitters, yes, but companionable women who didn’t seem to mind quite as much as Mrs Watson did about each others’ prowess with a ball of yarn. On her second meet, during the tea-break, Elsie wandered out of the stuffy town hall into the fresh sunshine and found a lovely, overgrown French lavender pushing silvery limbs through the fence. Snapping a piece off, she had stuffed it into her bag, taken it home, snipped it into cuttings and stuck them into pots.
Now, humming quietly to herself, Elsie was digging a trowel into the sandy earth in her backyard. With gloved hands she hollowed out the hole and slid the lavender cutting from its pot. It had struck well, sending up healthy, leafy shoots.
As she patted the dirt down, she heard a loud crash, followed by a muffled cry. It came from next door.
Dropping her trowel, Elsie shed her gloves and ran across the narrow strip of adjoining yard. She hesitated, then gathered her neighbourly resolve and pushed straight through the side door.
Inside Aida’s house, it was dark and cool, curtains drawn across the windows. In the living room there was a single cane armchair with a flattened cushion, a small coffee table with three novels piled untidily on top. The air smelled faintly of toast.
‘Hello?’ Elsie called out, tentatively moving through the living room, past the kitchen identical to hers and into the hallway. It was uncanny, walking through the mirror image of her own house, but with the unfamiliar scents and bare furnishings of a stranger.
‘Aida?’
‘Who’s there?’ Her neighbour’s voice came from the bedroom, startled and thin.
Suddenly not wanting to frighten or intrude, Elsie paused. ‘It’s Elsie, from next door. Are you okay?’ She cocked her ear towards the bedroom. ‘I heard a noise. I thought you might be hurt.’
‘I’m . . . no . . .’ the voice faded off. ‘Please help me.’
Elsie rushed into the bedroom.
A wardrobe lay on its front on the floor. Alongside, an overturned chair sprawled against a wicker basket from which folds of fabric and a scatter of cotton reels spewed across the floor. Supine on the carpet, with her knees and feet beneath the wardrobe, Aida lay trapped.
Elsie hurried to Aida’s side. ‘Can you move? Are you hurt?’
Aida’s breathing was panicked, but she shook her head and struggled to prop herself up on her elbows. Almost selfconsciously she was grabbing at her dress, as though trying to straighten it or make herself more presentable. ‘My left foot hurts. I don’t think it’s serious, but I’m stuck.’
Elsie crawled to the wardrobe, searching for grip where the timber lay against Aida’s bare shins. She gave it an experimental heave.
‘I’m going to lift it enough to get your feet out,’ she said. ‘On the count of three, can you slide out?’
Aida didn’t answer but she nodded grimly.
‘One, two, three –’ Elsie held her breath and heaved, Aida dragged her legs clear and Elsie let the wardrobe drop with a thud.
Drawing her knees up, Aida curled into herself. Red grazes marked her shins and she clutched at her left ankle.
‘Can you move it?’ Elsie asked.
Aida winced, gingerly flexing her foot. ‘It hurts, but I don’t think anything is broken.’
‘Let me help you up.’
‘No, no. I can manage – ’ She rolled forward onto her hands and knees, but when she made to stand she cursed and stumbled. Elsie hastened to steady her. Aida smiled weakly and let Elsie take her up beneath her arm. With Aida hopping, they shuffled to the bed and Elsie lowered her down. Instantly Aida rolled onto her side, fussing again with her dress and pulling her knees up.
‘Should we get you to the doctor?’
‘I’ll be fine.’
Elsie frowned. ‘That ankle might need strapping.’
Aida tugged a blanket up to cover herself. ‘I’m sorry to have bothered you.’
‘Not at all.’ Elsie looked at the wardrobe, flat on the floor, the upturned chair and the scatter of mess. Before she left, she would need to help Aida right it again. ‘You were stuck. You wouldn’t have . . .’ she trailed off. ‘You’re by yourself.’
A tear slid down Aida’s nose and plopped onto the pillow.
‘I’ll get you some painkillers,’ Elsie said softly.
In the bathroom, a single towel hung from the rail, a bottle of shampoo sat on the floor in the shower recess. The tiles were soap-filmed but there were no traces of mould and the air smelled of the clean scent of lemon Jasol. A lone toothbrush in a cup on the sink. Inside the medicine cabinet she found an unopened box of Band-Aids and a bottle of Dettol. But it was another, unfamiliar container that caught her attention.
Distaval the label read. The name sounded familiar, but Elsie couldn’t quite place it. For hypnotic effect. A sedative? Furtively, she glanced back over her shoulder. Aida was silent in the bedroom. Carefully Elsie picked up the bottle and rolled it in her fingers. The tablets clinked inside. Hypnotic effect. Elsie’s stomach dropped. Distaval. Of course.
They gave it to women suffering morning sickness.
‘Oh my,’ she breathed to herself. A strange, cold fizzing sensation swept through her, a curdling of guilt and embarrassment and anxiety. Silently she shut the cabinet.
Back in the bedroom, Aida was curled up on the bed but her eyes were open and she stared blankly at the wall. The blanket covered her body; a thread of smoke rose from the cigarette dangling in
one hand.
All of a sudden Elsie felt awkward, as though she had walked into something intimate. In the bedroom doorway she hesitated, tapped on the doorframe.
Aida’s eyes flicked to her. They were the most uncanny green – an intense, almost luminous shade like cut limes, beneath thick, arched brows.
‘Is there anyone I can call?’ Elsie asked.
Aida stared at her, and Elsie thought she had not heard her question. Then she answered, ‘No.’
Before Elsie realised she had spoken the thought aloud, it came out: ‘Where are your family?’
But Aida smiled. ‘It’s only me here,’ she said. ‘I’m having a short holiday before college.’
‘Oh,’ Elsie said. ‘That sounds . . . nice.’ It didn’t sound nice. Who holidays alone in the unremarkable suburbs? Plus, Elsie knew it was a lie. Clearly Aida was alone, yes – but this was no holiday.
This was a hideout.
Elsie was unsure what else to say. She knew she should leave, but she found herself stepping slowly into the room. Aida sat up, gathering the blanket, pulling it high to cover herself as if she were naked. Her feet and shins poked out the end.
‘Are you sure you’re not hurt?’ Elsie said, sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed. Blood had begun to crust in streaks on Aida’s shins.
‘I’ll be okay.’ Aida tucked a thread of black hair behind her ear. ‘Thank you for the biscuits the other day.’ Her cheeks reddened.
‘I wanted to thank you for your help with the chook.’
Aida lifted a shoulder. ‘It was no problem.’
‘Where did you learn to . . . ?’ Elsie made two fists and thrust them away from each other, a humourless pantomime of the chicken’s demise.
This time Aida shrugged both shoulders. ‘We always had chickens, growing up. My grandmother had dozens of them. Death was a part of life, I suppose.’ She gave a hint of an ironic smile.
‘Where did you grow up?’
The two women regarded each other.
‘Your husband,’ Aida said, dodging her question as she crushed the cigarette into an ashtray on the bed. ‘He works a lot.’
It would be wisest for them both if she left now, Elsie thought. Make sure the young woman was safe, perhaps fix her a cup of tea and go home. Keep out of other people’s messy business.
But Elsie heard herself answer. She felt her shoulders relax as the words came out. ‘It’s work. He’s just gotten all these new responsibilities, right after we got married.’
‘Did you work? Before you were married?’
‘Yes,’ Elsie said. ‘It’s funny how I miss it.’
‘So he got promoted, and you got sacked.’
‘I resigned,’ Elsie broke in quickly. ‘It was my choice.’
‘Was it?’
‘Well, no,’ Elsie concurred. ‘I guess it wasn’t.’
Aida chuckled. It was a warm, throaty sound, and Elsie, startled, was gripped by an urge to make her laugh again.
‘How’s your ankle?’
Aida flexed her foot. ‘It feels better already.’
Elsie took in the mess on the floor. ‘How did you do it?’
‘Stupid really,’ Aida said with another laugh. ‘I was trying to get something off the top of the wardrobe. I stood on the chair and overbalanced, grabbed the top of the cupboard and it all came tumbling down.’
‘I heard the crash,’ Elsie said. ‘Ordinarily I don’t come uninvited into people’s houses.’ She thought of the bottle of Distaval and cleared her throat. ‘Shall I get you some antiseptic for those cuts?’
Aida hesitated. Finally she said, ‘Thank you. And then please, let me make you a cup of tea.’
An oddly pleasant feeling flushed up Elsie’s spine. ‘I’ll make the tea – you stay off that ankle.’
11
Bruises blossomed on Aida’s shins in the days to come. But as the aches came and went and the bruises settled into a ripe yellowish-purple, she continued to ignore the daily knocks on her door from Elsie.
The first day following the wardrobe catastrophe, Elsie called out cheerily, ‘Hello, Aida, it’s only me!’ She tried the door handle, but it was locked. When Aida hadn’t answered in the morning, her neighbour had come back in the afternoon.
The second and third days also included two visits, mid-morning and mid-afternoon. On the third day, Elsie went around the back and even tried rattling the back door.
On the fourth day, it was only once, with Elsie calling, ‘Aida? Are you home? Are you all right?’
A week later, when Aida’s bruises were fading to dirty smudges and the door handle stopped rattling to the tune of Elsie’s voice, Aida cried dismayed tears.
12
Days rolled by as unstoppably as they do. The mildness of spring leavened into a hot, dry summer. Christmas was spent driving back and forth from Gawler to Adelaide in the heat, visiting family and eating until Thomas felt pleasantly sick. The 1961 new year arrived and Thomas’s short break for the festive season was over and he went back to work, whereupon his responsibilities were increased, again: this time, to incorporate in-home demonstrations.
And then Elsie told him she was expecting.
For Thomas, 1961 was off to a cracking start.
It felt ridiculously indulgent to eat out for the heck of it. On a Friday night in February, the atmosphere in the restaurant was ripe with reverence and a sense of occasion. Wine glasses clinked softly amongst demure conversation and the notes of jazz. If he wanted to, Thomas could spend a week’s wages on little more than a couple of meals and a bottle of wine. But this was a celebration, and Thomas read the menu feeling like a child in a toy store. If he was to be honest, he would have preferred to go to the pub, but as he was with Elsie he would have had to spend the evening in the ladies’ lounge. And it didn’t seem fair to celebrate his wife’s being up the spout without his wife. Or her spout.
‘How am I supposed to pick only one meal?’ Thomas exclaimed as he appraised the list of mouth-watering offers on the menu. Beef Wellington, shepherd’s pie, tripe in white sauce. ‘I’m leaning towards beef Wellington.’ He set down his menu and looked up at Elsie. ‘What are you going to have?’
She frowned. ‘I think I’m going to ask for a little broth.’
‘What? No! Order something special. You can have broth any old time. This is an occasion.’
‘I know, darling,’ she said with a small smile. ‘I’m just not feeling very well. Quite nauseous, actually. But nothing to worry about.’
‘Isn’t that supposed to end after the morning?’
She shot him a look that stood his arm hairs on end. ‘Sorry,’ he said, chastened. ‘I’m sorry to hear it, my love. Is there anything I can do?’
She twiddled with her fork. ‘This is lovely, going out for tea together. And I’m very excited about . . .’ she dropped her eyes to her lap and her cheeks went a beautiful shade of pink. ‘But I wonder about . . . tempting fate.’
‘What’s that, love?’
‘You know – being excited too soon.’
‘What do you mean?’ he cried. Elsie looked alarmed. He lowered his voice. ‘There’s no such thing as being “too” excited. And what do you mean, “too soon”? Aren’t you delighted?’
‘Of course I am.’ She smiled again and he relaxed. ‘But it’s considered prudent to keep this to ourselves. At least for the first three months.’ That last part she uttered barely louder than a whisper and Thomas had to lean forward and strain to hear her.
‘Is that so?’
Elsie picked up her glass of water. ‘So the superstition goes. Ugh.’ She set the water back down and wrinkled her nose as a waitress carrying two steaming plates passed behind her. ‘That fish smells awful. I can smell everything. Which wouldn’t ordinarily matter, except that right now everything smells atrocious.’
Thomas made a
mental note not to order the fish. Surely the beef Wellington would be okay? There wasn’t any fish in that, was there? ‘I’m sure you’ll be back to normal in no time,’ he said. ‘I have no doubt. And think how excited you’re going to be. And how busy! I know you’ve been wanting a little more to keep you occupied at home.’
Elsie’s face split into a grin. ‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘It’s going to be wonderful.’
Thomas adored her. ‘What a perfect wife you are.’
Almost immediately, Elsie’s face crumpled. Her eyes glimmered with tears. Mild horror rose in Thomas. ‘Oh dear, I’ve upset you.’
She shook her head and dabbed at her cheeks with her napkin. ‘Just mood swings. All very normal. Listen to me, troubling you with women’s business. Enough.’ She shook her head, and her smile was back. Lighting up his life.
‘Let’s enjoy this treat,’ she said. ‘A celebration. Now, what are you going to order?’
He watched her carefully, but the happiness appeared to stay. Internally he scolded himself for asking after her bodily problems – after all, he knew nothing of the feminine enigma and everyone knew it was best kept that way. On a few occasions they had been behind the bathroom door together, and he recalled now that slippery, miraculous occasion when Elsie had permitted him to make love to her in the shower. But for the most part, the mysterious workings of a woman’s body were best kept between her and her doctor.
Especially so now, in these delicate matters. So he consoled himself with the fact that if he needed to know something, his beloved wife would tell him. And if she said it’s nothing to worry about, then worry he would not.
As though reading his mind, Elsie said in an amused voice, ‘I’m feeling a trifle under the weather, that’s all.’ She offered him a stronger smile, showing the pearls of her teeth, the front two overlapping slightly. ‘But I can’t wait to become a mother.’
Reassured, Thomas signalled for the waiter because, what the hell, he’d decided to order the porterhouse.