by Sue Orr
Nicola shuts the car windows.
‘Also,’ says Joy, who has returned and is combing her hair in the sun-visor mirror, ‘the Janssens got the land once the peat had been drained. Which, if you think about it, should have been factored into the sale price. The greenies wouldn’t let you do it now, drain the peat.’
Joy speaks as though decades of history happened yesterday. As though Nicola is somehow responsible for peat draining and catching fire, for dairy prices soaring and sinking, for urban drift and greenies running interference and all the other worldly malaise that has festered and bloomed since she left the farm at seventeen, thirty-seven years ago.
Paeroa is sneaking up on her, these roads are as familiar as the streets around her home in Auckland. She could turn off soon and drive slowly past the old farm. Or, she could turn down another side road, drive past the old Gilbert place, the clothes line, past the cottage where Gabrielle Baxter lived with her father.
She dreams, sometimes, that someone is after her. It’s a man and he’s chasing the twelve-year-old her out of the house. It’s dark and she jumps down in the drains and she runs through them, through lush weeds and blackberry intersections, all the way to the safety of the river.
1972
Nickie Walker
The feeling had started at three o’clock in the morning, when she stood outside the Gilberts’ wash house window and watched Mr Gilbert punching Mrs Gilbert. Punching her, bashing her up, then doing the other thing to her. It was all Nickie could think about. It was what her brain went back to, when it didn’t have anything else to do.
A lump grew at the top of her stomach. When she smelled food, the lump swelled to the bottom of her throat like a balloon. She knew that no matter what she was trying to eat, she wouldn’t be able to force it down. Nickie played around with food, tried to squash it down on the plate into small piles. Her mother was onto her. A couple of times she’d tried to ask Nickie what was wrong generally. Nickie told her to piss off.
Her mother yelled at her. Don’t you dare speak to me like that, young lady. It was only when Nickie looked at Joy, noticed that she seemed frightened, that she realised she’d sworn. Imagine. A mother being frightened of her daughter.
Gabrielle phoned. It was a Monday night, about eight o’clock. Her father answered. ‘Must be urgent,’ he said, ‘if it can’t wait ’til tomorrow morning.’
Nickie didn’t speak until he’d left the hallway. ‘Hi,’ she said.
They both waited and listened. It was funny how quickly Gabrielle had learned this habit, the habit of everyone on a party line. Even adults. Just a few seconds of listening and waiting and staying quiet, to check for the echo of company. The brushing of skin against the handset, or a breath caught in the back of a throat, or maybe on a black line swinging in the wind. Even the sound of the actual silence, the nothingness, was somehow deeper if someone else was listening.
Working, you said, if you thought someone was earwigging. Well, it was what you were supposed to say. Piss off, sticky-beak was Gabrielle’s version. Nickie said it quickly — working — before Gabrielle got a chance. They both waited. No click. No nothing.
‘Shanks wanks,’ said Gabrielle.
‘Gabrielle.’ Nickie giggled.
‘If you’re still with us, Mrs Shanks, now’s the time to hang up.’
‘You’re going to get us in trouble, Gabrielle,’ Nickie said. If Mrs Shanks was listening, at least she wouldn’t be able to accuse Nickie of being rude.
‘Shut up,’ Gabrielle replied.
They both listened some more. Nothing.
‘I’m just trying to flush her out,’ said Gabrielle. ‘It’s got to be illegal, listening in. It’s illegal, Mrs Shanks, if you’re there. Anyway, Nickie. I’m ringing because I’ve got some stuff on I am David.’
I am David was the book they were reading for English. It was also their code for when they wanted to talk about the Gilberts.
‘I got some information from the library,’ Gabrielle said. ‘Thames Library.’
‘Oh. Good.’ Nickie had no idea what Gabrielle was talking about. That was the trouble with codes. Sometimes they were too tricky even for the people who invented them.
‘But the thing is, you can’t take this stuff out of the library. You have to read it there.’
‘Really? What is it?’ Nickie wondered whether Gabrielle really was talking about I am David.
‘It’s … from the big atlases. Yep. The big books in the reference section. So you and I have to go over to Thames, to the library, and do the work there.’
‘Alright.’
‘Tomorrow, Nickie. We’ve got to see the lady at the library tomorrow. At four o’clock. She said to come in then and she’ll help with the research. We’ll get the Thames bus straight from school, and the five o’clock bus back home. We’ll just leave our bikes at school so we can bike home …’
She’d thought it all through. Whatever was happening, it was a big deal. The lump in Nickie’s stomach started swelling. She slid down the wall and sat on the floor, under the phone. If she crunched her legs up into her stomach, it sometimes helped make the lump smaller. Not tonight, though.
‘Does it have to be tomorrow?’ Nickie asked.
‘Yes. Because other kids might find this information and get it. But if we get it and finish our homework and hand it in first, Mr Burgess will know we’re diligent and motivated.’
‘What about the calves?’
‘Education is just as important as Calf Club Day,’ said Gabrielle. ‘If not more so. I’m sure Mrs Shanks would agree. WOULDN’T YOU, MRS SHANKS? And this information I’ve found … is going to solve all our homework problems. So we’ll just have to miss the calves tomorrow.’
Gabrielle wouldn’t say a thing the next morning, when they fed the calves. All day at school, too, she refused to talk about it. She said if she shared the plan with Nickie too early, Nickie’d get worked up about it. She was right of course.
There were a few other kids on the bus, mainly ones who lived in Thames but for some reason came over their way to school. The bus stopped at all the schools between Fenward and Thames, picking kids up and dropping them off. Gabrielle and Nickie flopped down into a double seat near the back.
‘When?’ she asked Gabrielle.
‘When what?’
‘When are you going to tell me what we’re really doing?’
She smiled. ‘I suppose it’s safe now. We have an appointment.’
‘Where?’
‘At the library.’
Nickie was pleased. So far, everything she’d told her mother was the truth.
‘With a lady from Thames. We’re going to tell her about Mrs Gilbert. This lady and some others help people getting bashed.’
If the bus had stopped at that moment, Nickie would have got off it. She stared out the window, her hand over her mouth, trying not to cry. Out of control. Everything now was out of control, like the Catherine Wheel last Guy Fawkes night, spitting and sparkling and swirling on the nail on the post, then finally coming off and spinning through the crowd of kids around it. Chasing them.
‘Here’s the thing, Nickie. These ladies are trained to keep secrets. She told me all about how they work. So no one will get in trouble.’
‘What do you mean, she told you all about it? Where did you find her?’
Gabrielle rubbed her eyes. Nickie thought she might be about to cry. Please don’t, Nickie thought. If you cry, I’ll bawl my eyes out. Two of us crying wouldn’t be good.
‘Mum knew them. Well, not this one, I think. But people like her,’ Gabrielle said after a while. ‘I will tell you about it, but not now. It’s something brand-new, Mum said. It’s just getting set up in different places.’
‘So what are they, exactly?’
‘Well, they’re secret. One of the things they do is sneak women away from situations. Such as violent husbands. Rescue them. And their kids. And take them somewhere safe.’
‘So how did you find thi
s person?’ Nickie asked. ‘The one we’re meeting?’
‘I rang Mum’s friend in Silverdale. The one she went to.’
They were both silent. The bus was rowdy, kids were singing in the back seat and playing Corners, squashing each other when the bus went round a bend.
‘So … was your dad …?’
Gabrielle’s face froze. She looked out the window, as though the question had never been asked.
‘So,’ Nickie said, swallowing hard. ‘Um … are we going there now?’
‘No. The lady said we needed to have a chat about things. In the library. The library was a good place to meet, that’s what she said. Everyone has an excuse to go to the library.’
They got off the bus outside the post office in Pollen Street, and walked the two blocks over to Queen Street, where the library was. It was a big grey concrete building, with a sign saying Carnegie Library. It had been given to the people of Thames last century by some American guy who had so much money he just announced that if any little town in the world wanted a library, he’d pay for it.
The library was straight across the road from the police station. Nickie wondered if policemen kept an eye on who was having meetings at the library that were nothing to do with books and more to do with splitting up families.
It was quiet inside, just a few old ladies looking at books in romance and two grandpas at the newspaper reading table. Nickie was pleased she didn’t know anyone there, including the librarians. They went straight to the Children’s Room. Nickie pulled the biggest atlas down off the shelf. She put it on the table in the centre of the room and opened it up. Gabrielle went to the desk and asked the librarian lady for books on the war. The librarian brought an armful to their table.
‘We’re researching for English,’ Nickie told her. ‘For I am David.’
She nodded at Nickie, her eyebrows up, as if to say Really?
‘Anything at all about the war will be useful,’ Nickie added. An idea had just come to her — that they could actually do some research on I am David. This extra diligence would impress Mr Burgess. It would also make Nickie feel better about the trip to Thames; the reason they were there being only a half-lie not a full one.
‘This is it,’ the librarian said. ‘This is all we’ve got.’
‘Thanks,’ said Gabrielle.
The librarian left them alone. The sun shone in through dirty windows and the branches of a tree scraped against the top one. The smell was stronger than the usual library smell today, maybe because the sun had warmed up all the books and their scent was escaping into the still air. That smell of thousands of kids’ fingers on pages, and all the places those fingers had been while the kids were distracted with their reading. This was a thought that usually disgusted Nickie, but today she didn’t mind it. It was normal for a library. Not like their mission.
‘How will we know which one she is?’ she whispered to Gabrielle. She was almost expecting someone dressed in army clothes to turn up. Someone very fit and muscly and ready to fight off danger if need be.
Nickie couldn’t believe what happened next. One of the old ladies who’d been looking at the romance books came over. She walked straight towards them and sat down at their table. How were they supposed to get rid of her?
‘Gabrielle Gilbert?’ the old lady asked. She looked at Gabrielle, then at Nickie. ‘Is that one of you two girls?’
Nickie blinked. Gabrielle Gilbert?
‘I’m Gabrielle,’ Gabrielle said, staring the lady straight in the eye.
The lady was older than Nickie’s mother. She was short and her body was the shape of a forty-four gallon drum. Her hair was grey and really frizzy, and it was cut to make her look like a normal grandmother. Nickie wondered whether it was meant to be a disguise. She wore glasses with silver rims and she had a really kind smile, the sort that makes you feel happy for a moment, even if you’re having a generally shit day.
‘And this is my best friend, Nickie—’
‘Don’t.’ Nickie spat the word out. Tears weren’t far away. ‘I … it’s just I’ll get in trouble …’
‘It’s okay,’ the lady said. Her voice was gentle. She reached across the table and put her hand on top of Nickie’s. ‘I don’t need to know your name. You’re very brave, Nickie, coming along to help Gabrielle. My name is Yvonne — that’s all I’m allowed to tell you for now. So just Nickie is fine.’
‘So, Gabrielle,’ said the lady. Her voice was barely more than a whisper. ‘Things aren’t so good at your place, is that right?’
Gabrielle hung her head down, looking into her lap. Her hair fell in front of her face. She stayed like that for ages. The lady — Yvonne, just Yvonne — looked at her and smiled, then put her arm across Gabrielle’s shoulders.
‘It’s safe to talk, Gabrielle. Nothing you say will be repeated. Unless you agree.’
When Gabrielle looked up, she was crying. Not pretend tears, but real ones, big glistening tears that rolled down her face and dripped onto the pages of the book open in front of her. Nickie wasn’t angry with her, not any more. How could she be angry when, for the first time since she’d known Gabrielle, including all the times she’d talked about Bridie and the sadness and Heaven, she was actually crying?
Gabrielle got a hankie out of her school bag and blew her nose. She wiped the tears away and put the hankie back in her bag.
‘My father,’ she said. ‘My father beats up Mum.’
Yvonne nodded. Her arm was still across Gabrielle’s shoulders. ‘Go on,’ she said quietly.
Yes, Nickie thought. Go on, Gabrielle Gilbert.
‘He does it at night, really late, after I’ve gone to bed. In the middle of the night. He probably thinks I’m asleep. Mum’s got bruises all over her.’
‘Have you actually seen it happen?’ asked Yvonne.
‘Yes. We … I’ve sneaked out of bed. I watch him. I’ve seen him punch her in the head. And in the stomach. All over.’
‘Go on,’ said Yvonne again.
Gabrielle looked at Nickie, but Nickie couldn’t read her face, couldn’t work out what Gabrielle wanted from her. There was only one thing crashing around in Nickie’s head — they were in trouble. Big trouble.
Gabrielle took a deep breath, and started talking again. ‘He does other things to her, too. After he’s hit her. He has sex with her. Though it’s not really with her because she doesn’t move.’
Yvonne nodded. It was hard to see what she was thinking, her face was no different to how it would be if she was sitting at a library table reading a book. It wasn’t sad, or angry, or anything else.
‘Does he … Gabrielle, does he hit you, too?’
‘No,’ said Gabrielle. ‘Not me. He loves me. He’d never hit me.’
‘Gabrielle,’ said Yvonne. She took her arm away from the back of Gabrielle’s chair and she held Gabrielle’s hand. An old wrinkly grandma hand holding Gabrielle’s little girl hand. Gabrielle’s nail polish was exactly the same colour as her peach T-shirt. ‘I need to know. Does your mother know you’ve come to see me today? Because I can’t help you — I can’t help her — unless she knows. She’s got to be willing to be helped, Gabrielle.’
Gabrielle looked down again, but there were no tears this time.
‘No,’ she said. ‘She doesn’t know we’re here.’
Inside Nickie, the lump shrunk just the tiniest bit.
‘Mum doesn’t even know that I know about the bashing. She pretends she’s clumsy, that she bumps into things, slips over. That’s how she explains the bruises.’
‘Have you tried telling her, Gabrielle, that you know it’s not true? Have you told her you’ve heard your dad hitting her in the night? That you’ve seen it?’ asked Yvonne.
Nickie didn’t understand how Yvonne kept her voice so calm, asking all these questions.
‘I did try, a few times,’ said Gabrielle. ‘But she doesn’t even answer me, if I start to talk about it. What she does is … so, I bring it up, and she always does the same thing.�
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‘And what’s that?’
Nickie leaned forward into the conversation. She was as caught up in the story as Yvonne. Though, unlike Yvonne, who wanted to help, Nickie just wanted to know what happened next.
‘I say something …’ Gabrielle paused, looked Yvonne in the eye, and blinked quickly. More tears were appearing. Amazing. ‘I say something and Mum goes weird.’
‘What do you mean by weird?’ asked Yvonne.
‘She does the same thing nearly every time. She … she hangs out washing. As soon as I start talking, she can tell what’s coming. She just walks away from me and goes into the wash house. She picks up the clothes basket. If it’s full, she goes straight outside and hangs out washing. If it’s empty, she goes to the clothes line and brings the washing in no matter if she only put it out five minutes earlier, no matter if it’s soaking wet, she brings it in.’
‘Oh,’ said Yvonne.
The three of them sat without saying anything. It was only then that Nickie noticed the door to the Children’s Room was closed. Someone had shut it once Yvonne had come in. Nickie glanced at the big clock up on the wall. It felt as though they’d been sitting there whispering for hours, but only fifteen minutes had passed. Fifteen minutes of talking and no one had been in and they hadn’t been told off by the librarians.
Gabrielle was still telling the story about Mrs Gilbert and the washing.
‘If there’s no wet washing in the basket, and none on the line, it doesn’t matter. Mum will just grab anything, the first clothes or dirty stuff she can see. She puts it in the basket and then she goes outside and hangs it out.’
‘She hangs the dirty stuff out on the line?’ Yvonne asked.
‘Yes,’ said Gabrielle. ‘She hangs the dirty stuff out. She’s … I think she’s going mental.’
Yvonne took a big breath. Her hands were clasped together. She laid them flat on the table in front of her and looked at them.