I grilled Mack for more information when he came over on Thursday morning before school to check in on Mum’s heart. He was little help. All he could tell me was that the search was winding up. There was no suggestion of Rosie in the forest and he didn’t think I should expect one. ‘It’s a different case altogether. They haven’t found anyone else in there, just those two backpackers.’ He shook his head. ‘Those poor women.’
I shared this news with George at lunchtime and she, like me, was both deflated and relieved.
Mack said, ‘That many people have asked me if it’s Rosie in the forest. I tell you, if one more person on Cedar Street stops me . . .’ He trailed off. Then he told me and Mum that the specially trained cadaver dogs who searched the forest wore little booties to protect their paws from the rough terrain.
•
If Judy White had wondered whether Rosie was in the forest, she never said. The backpacker murders were all over the news. Belanglo was not that far by car. If Judy White considered it, as she convalesced in her dressing-gown, leaving the house only a handful of times to go to the Goodwood Grocer, she never once let on.
We did know that Judy quivered at the news of Bart when Nance told her. He was such a terrific guy. A good, honest man with a kind face. She shuddered at the thought of it. He’d been in the lake this whole time? While she had driven past and past? Just the thought of it—oh!—it made her quiver so. She wished she had checked in on his condition. On his worn, unhealthy heart. She should’ve suggested he get an echocardiogram, or an MRI. She should’ve asked after his stress levels and his blood pressure on one of her frequent trips to Bart’s Meats. She should’ve done a lot of things.
She would check in on Mrs Bart soon. On Flora. God, she should have done so many things—and held on to her daughter. At every moment, as Nance observed, Judy quaked with the hole left by Rosie. My baby, my baby, my baby.
•
On Thursday night—the night before the funeral—I rubbed Backflip’s rough paws and lay down next to her on her bed. She went to sleep presently and breathed slowly and every now and again her face twitched and she bared her teeth and fluttered her brown legs in a dream. I lay there for a long time and thought about Bart with his tired, sickly heart. I thought about Rosie, too, even though as the weeks went on I tried my hardest not to. She was a ghost now, only there to haunt me. I wanted to think of anything but Bart, and anything but hearts, and anything but Rosie White in the black-and-white, pulsating dark.
So I thought about Evie, and I admired her bravery. I quaked at her arm against my arm in assembly. By that time, well into spring, I had realised that I loved to think of her. It was so diverting, to visit her in my mind. I conjured her face and was overcome with calmness, like sinking into sand. If only, I thought. But if only what? I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t sure about anything at all, just: if only, if only, if only.
32
Bart’s funeral was awfully sad and memories of it differed depending on who you spoke to. Smithy was the most lyrical in his recollections and he shared them from behind the bar with anyone who’d listen.
He said that back in Ireland a woman was expected to be keening. ‘Wailing over her beloved is keening,’ he said. ‘She’d keen for an age until it felt righter and then she’d shush up and the town would drink stout.’
Mal West and Dennis Carlstrom listened, while they drank stout.
‘But this one was eerie quiet. I could nearly hear the teardrops.’
•
Pearl had attended the funeral on horseback. She rode in and stood Oyster in the small grassed yard next to the church. He wore new shoes for the occasion and clopped them down Cedar Street, the first time his hooves had ever walked on a properly paved road. Coral said, ‘A horse! What a spectacle. It’s just what Bart deserved’; and Kevin Fairley, who had left his cows in the south paddock, stood with Pearl and mooed to Oyster, patting the horse’s powerful neck while Oyster nickered.
Mrs Bart and Jan drove down in the Mazda. They didn’t want a part of any hearse, horse or procession. It was a simple affair, with a veneered rosewood coffin and a service led by Archdeacon Desmond ‘Dezza’ Barnes, who was succinct and, in accordance with Mrs Bart’s wishes, didn’t bang on too much about heaven.
Pearl and Mrs Bart and Jan sat in the front row, and the backs of their heads offered little insight into their emotions. I noted Pearl wore black from head to toe, like a raven, but Mrs Bart interrupted her dress with a lovely floral scarf, with high blues and gentle yellows, which seemed to hint ever so slightly towards a better future. A set of original-issue, first-generation My Little Ponies sat proudly on Bart’s modest coffin.
Some said the service ran an hour. Others said half that, and their friends said double. I didn’t wear a watch and couldn’t tell. Some of Bart’s comrades from council attended, as did the Mayor, who I’d only ever seen in photos, and who shook hands firmly with many men near the picket fence while Oyster looked on. Burly Joe’s wife came down from Sydney, and Bart’s cousins from Wollongong and Bowral. Fishermen who didn’t even know him and the owner of Noble Meats in Clarke came to pay their hushed respects.
Opal and Ken Jones sat with Denise and Brian. Mum and I sat with Nan and Pop and Mack and Tracy. Jasper stayed back with Tracy’s mum, because Nan advised he ‘shouldn’t be rushed’. Big Jim and Fitzy sat with Merv. Val Sparks crossed herself and sat with Nance and Helen and Bill and Faye Hayne and Robin Clunes and Smithy, forming a consortium of shopkeepers. Cedar Street pretty well shut for the afternoon, save for the Wicko, which Smithy left staffed more than usual—he put on everyone on the roster—in preparation for the wake after.
The speeches blurred into one speech, in which everyone said the same things of Bart, and the same things were reflected in the eyes of all those who gathered—for everyone saw Bart in the same way, and enjoyed being reminded of their rightness of vision. Loss is like a magnifying glass. It enlarges people. It enlarged Bart until he towered above us like the mountain.
He’d’ve given the shirt off his back, that handsome Bart McDonald. Bart had time for everyone. If someone was in trouble they didn’t have a better friend. He was a true local hero; so giving, so noble. He’d never expect a repayment. He’d buy a round and then another. Pride in his civic duty was his reward, pride in his family. Those fish didn’t know what hit them. Ha ha ha, he was a bloody good fisherman. Loved a beer and a beef sandwich; loved a coffee scroll. Always had a nice smile and a bit of good advice. He was the best of men, Bart McDonald, and now the town must find a way to carry on without him. May these venerations secure his place on the clear blue lakes of heaven.
Val Sparks nodded vigorously. Mrs Bart frowned. Nan, the atheist, forced herself to smile.
Noises arose at the very back of the church after the service had started, and I turned around to see Roy Murray creeping in with Doe. Roy was holding her around the middle and helping her along as if she was infirm or giddy or had a hard time with gravity. Mum later raised the possibility of an inner-ear infection. Roy led Doe to the back row and they sat as close to the doors as possible, presumably so Doe could make a quick escape in the event of a roof collapse. Doe Murray! A sighting! I don’t think anyone thought to appreciate the significance.
I turned around too many times to look at them. Doe was wearing a navy trench coat and a worried face. Mum said, ‘Jean. Don’t be a creep. Look to the front,’ and I reluctantly obeyed. Then Roy and Doe ducked out just as soon as the congregation was rising and were not seen again. If it seemed curious after, it didn’t so much at the time. Everyone went straight across the road and around the corner to the Wicko. ‘May the road rise up to meet you,’ said Smithy to the arriving crowd, out of breath after dashing from the church, full of purpose.
Mum said, ‘I’ll see you at home after,’ and she and Mack and Tracy went inside.
I walked home past the seven bottlebrush trees on our street and opened the back door for Backflip. She went around in circles, wagging her ta
il, and cried with excitement.
I had no idea what to do with myself. I had told Mum that I didn’t want to attend the wake. Nan was pleased, because if I was in any way hesitant then I shouldn’t be rushed. George was taking the opportunity to drink cask wine at Lucas’s house with him and Ethan. ‘You should come, Jean,’ she said. ‘Ethan wants you to.’ But I didn’t want to. I felt like walking and sitting alone.
I decided I would go the clearing. I took off the dress I’d worn to the funeral and put on my overalls. I attached Backflip to her lead and we went out into the absurd afternoon. We walked through the ghost town, where all the shops were shut, and headed towards the river.
It was on the way there that I encountered Evie. Of all the days, it was that day—the day of Bart’s awfully sad funeral—that we had our first conversation.
•
It was almost dusk at the far end of Cedar Street near the entrance to the oval. The sky was pink across the middle and small grey clouds hung low over the treetops and high white clouds hung high near heaven and singular birds cut across it, their bodies made black by the sinking sun.
Signs hung up in most shop windows, announcing their afternoon closure. Only Val Sparks gave an explanation: I am shut, due to the funeral. God bless, in ink pen and capital letters that all slanted sadly forward.
When Backflip and I went past the Wicko, the beer garden was heaving with mourners. People spilled out onto the street, with schooner glasses. Fitzy hovered near the bent pole that she’d hit with her car, looking apologetic and thankfully relieved of her helmet. I could see my Pop and Merv, deep in conversation with the Mayor. Dezza Barnes, the Archdeacon, was holding court with a group that included Coral and Val Sparks and several of Goodwood’s Anglican congregation. I could see my Nan nestled in the corner with Celeste Munch, the potter, who had presented Mrs Bart with a ceramic urn that would soon hold Bart’s ashes. And there was Mrs Bart herself, heaving with condolences, holding her head as high as she could manage in the crowd. Her lovely face looked on the very brink of breaking; and Pearl was nowhere to be seen.
I first saw Evie as we turned off next to the Grocer towards the oval. She was sitting in the very last of the light on the hill, reading a book, leaning back on her elbows, with her legs stretched out and no expression. She had headphones on as big as earmuffs.
I stopped and let Backflip off the lead and she bolted across the grass, zigzagging, interrupting tiny flowers.
Evie hadn’t seen us. She was facing the river, angled towards the paddocks and the clearing.
I did not hesitate to walk towards her. The strange afternoon glowed with the pink and yellow sky. I felt exhilarated just at the sight of her.
Backflip got to Evie first. She galloped over and Evie was roused from her book. She sat up and ruffled Backflip’s ears, and Backflip was briefly elated before running off again, her nose to the ground.
Then Evie saw me. She looked me dead in the eyes and I felt like I had fallen off the deep green mountain. Spirals of air and flapping birds twisted in my chest.
‘Hi,’ she said, pulling off her headphones and letting them hang around her neck. The noise of drums and cymbals bled out into the air.
Here was Evie: the prettiest girl I had ever seen in real life.
And here was I: standing, looking down at her, and feeling suddenly foolish.
‘Hi,’ I said back.
My mind went to nothing. She didn’t say a word. We were just there together on the hill, her sitting and me standing. I wondered if it was my turn to talk again, even though it wasn’t. She pushed a button on her Walkman and it made a sharp stopping sound. The drums halted and her earmuffs hung quiet. She looked up at me, expectantly. Bravely. The colour of her hair was almost white at the ends, like the high clouds near heaven.
‘I’m Jean,’ I said.
‘Hi Jean,’ she said. ‘I’m Evie.’
I wanted to pass strands of grass through the gap between her teeth.
‘Have you just been to that funeral?’ she asked.
I told her I had.
‘Was it awful?’
I told her it was.
Then she moved forward and put her book down on the grass.
‘Do you want to sit down?’ she asked.
And so I did.
I lost track of Backflip and what she was doing. I didn’t know if she was rolling in mud or eating rubbish. I was wholly diverted. I sat with Evie on the damp grass on the hill and we had our first conversation, in which I asked too many questions, and she seemed affronted and only half answered; and the mystery of her unfolded itself ever so slightly, but then I left wondering if I knew anything about her at all.
Evie and her parents had just moved into the green and red house on Sooning Street and a lot of their stuff was still in boxes. They hadn’t been in town much and still felt like strangers. They’d been staying a lot in Cedar Valley where Evie’s grandmother lived and was ailing. It was breast cancer. The old lady was unable to perform simple tasks and required constant assistance. Evie’s mum had always wanted to move away from the city and now they were compelled to, by this sad occurrence. They had chosen Goodwood, because it was close to Cedar Valley, and Evie’s mum was a dear old friend of Arden Cleary, the novelist who lived on the mountain and wrote naturalist fiction.
Sooning Street, I had nodded, I knew the house she meant. It was the colour of a forest on one side and red on the other. A lady called Grace used to live there with her husband, Teddy, and Teddy was an eccentric who liked to paint things different colours. Grace didn’t mind and after Teddy died she left it the same because it evoked his memory. Then after Grace died the house was left empty; and now it was home to Evie and her parents.
They had come from Melbourne. Melbourne. I was embarrassed that I’d never been and decided right away not to tell her, but then she asked, ‘Have you ever been?’ and I was forced to say that no, I hadn’t.
‘But I want to soon,’ I said, and just the thought of it, as we sat on the old familiar oval in Goodwood, with the goal posts set for a weekend game of football, seemed ridiculous.
Evie answered my myriad questions like it was odd that I was asking. Was this something that people from small towns did? Asked about your family? I wasn’t sure if it was or wasn’t; I just knew I wanted to know everything about her, and I couldn’t think of another way to find out than to ask.
After a time, Evie pulled her big headphones off from around her neck and packed them into her cloth bag. As we talked, she fidgeted with the clover. She stared off towards the river and then she’d smile with half her mouth. When I asked her things she was bashful. When she asked me things she was pointed. It felt like my Nan and Pop, dancing, and how they would take it in turns to lead.
As the sun went slowly under, the hill got darker. Backflip finished exploring and sat down near us on the grass.
‘Did you know the girl who’s missing?’ asked Evie.
‘Rosie? Yeah,’ I said. ‘But not that well. She’s a year older.’
‘A whole year?’
She was mocking me, just gently. Then she seemed to remember herself, realising that it wasn’t right to make jokes in close proximity to the missing.
‘It’s really sad,’ she said, shaking her head so her hair moved around her shoulders. ‘We just moved here a few days before it happened, and now my dad’s all worried it’s the Belanglo Forest guy. He doesn’t want me walking around by myself. But I like walking around by myself.’
She looked at me again, right into my eyes. I felt things inside me that were too strong for my chest, deep in the parts of me where there was no language. I thought: I love walking around by myself, too. But Rosie, always Rosie—her black-and-white face hung fixed before me. What was Rosie like? Evie asked, and I didn’t know what to say. How was I to describe her? She was inscrutable. She was unapproachable. She was inexplicable. It seemed like nobody knew her at all.
And then, before I knew what was happening, our convers
ation was over. Evie was getting up and putting her cloth bag over her shoulder without making any excuses for leaving.
She stared down at me with no expression. ‘Is that tall guy at school your boyfriend?’ she asked. The words came out deliberately, abruptly.
‘No?’ I said. I felt suddenly embarrassed. ‘I mean, he took me to look at cows.’
Evie watched me for a second to see if I was kidding, but I wasn’t kidding and she laughed. She cracked up there on the hill, shaking her head.
‘Wow,’ she said. ‘It’s different here.’
I wanted to say: No, it’s all the same here. It’s always the same! You’re the thing that’s different.
‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ I asked her back.
Evie smiled and showed the gap in her teeth. She was mocking me again, just gently. I could feel it. It was like there was a joke that I didn’t get.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I do not.’
She was still smiling when she turned around and walked off without saying anything except, ‘Bye, Jean,’ which came out so casually that I rushed to say, ‘Oh, goodbye,’ too quickly, and I felt foolish again.
I couldn’t understand the electricity she emitted. She was like a substation, hushed and full of currents. There are lamps and streetlights and candles and suns that give off less light than Evie did. She was incandescent in the dusk as she ambled off towards town.
Backflip and I sat on the hill a little longer. The rest of Goodwood was busy keening, and growing quickly darker. My mind finally went still for a moment. It slowed like a wheel and then it halted. What a strange person she was, this Evie. She made me feel like I was changing. Right then in that instant: I was bursting and changing. I was old and brave and free as the air went cool and the birds and crickets cawed in the trees a night song.
33
After Bart’s funeral, the rain did not come.
Fitzy watered, with her helmet on and her stiff neck, and Big Jim said things like, ‘You get a rain gauge and it doesn’t rain. Maybe we should take it down, hon. What if we’ve gone and jinxed the weather?’
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