Nell's Festival of Crisp Winter Glories

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by Glenda Millard


  ‘We could call it the Festival of Crisp Winter Glories.’

  Over the years, the people of Cameron’s Creek had grown used to the uncommon ways of the Silk family, but even so there were a few who thought a Festival of Crisp Winter Glories was an odd idea.

  A dance for Nell Silk was one thing, but why celebrate a season so long, cold and dark? Crisp winter glories were a mystery to them. These poor folk had never drunk the waters of Tipperary Springs. They had never heard unicorns whispering in the mist, nor discovered that muddy puddles could be transformed overnight into skating rinks for fairies.

  They breathed timidly into tightly wrapped scarves instead of blasting dragonly plumes at the wild grey steeds that thundered across blueberry skies. When occasionally they ventured out on frosty mornings they saw only grim, grey drips on barbed-wire fences, where the Silks saw sparkling fence diamonds.

  Such sad souls had never known the pleasures of knitting Punch and Judy mittens with button eyes and stitched-on smiles, vests for orphaned lambs, or Fair Isle cosies for the hot-water bottles of elderly dogs. They preferred cooking potatoes in ovens rather than over the coals of backyard bonfires. To them, hopscotch, hula hoops and dancing seemed strange ways to keep warm, when one could stay huddled by a heater.

  Despite their differences, even these people had a tender place in their hearts for Nell Silk, spinner of yarn, singer of songs, dancer of jigs, maker of mittens and teller of tales. And besides, they were as keen and curious as anyone else to discover exactly what would happen at the Festival of Crisp Winter Glories.

  6. The Ache Under Nell’s Primrose Cardigan

  The mist lifted late and returned early in the Valley of the Unicorns. It tasted like a baby’s kiss, felt like damp velvet and smelt like the beginning of time. It hung like a magic cloak from ghostly gum trees and floated like an angel’s wing above the crystal stream.

  Nell collected an apron-full of dry twigs while Ben arranged river rocks to make a fireplace. Once the fire was lit, Nell unfolded her canvas deck chair and sat beside the leaping flames. Ben wrapped a tartan picnic rug around her shoulders, filled an old black billy with water from the stream and set it over the fire.

  ‘I’ll fill the bottles with mineral water now, Mum,’ he said. ‘By the time I’ve finished the billy should have boiled. Then we’ll have a cup of tea and something to eat.’

  Nell watched Ben pick his way carefully across the slippery stepping stones, carrying the crate of empty bottles on his shoulder. Once he was safely across to the other side of the stream, she unpacked enamel mugs and plates, egg and lettuce sandwiches and melting moments.

  The fire hissed and spat. A kookaburra laughed a beak-sized hole in the curtain of mist, then fell silent. Nell leant forward and poked at the fire with a stick. The coals broke open and showed their red hearts. Nell felt a sudden ache under her primrose cardigan. She’d had this ache before, but wasn’t sure what caused it.

  Perhaps it was because the children weren’t with her today. They were growing up now. They did things and went places by themselves, all as it should be. It wasn’t that Nell was lonely; when the children were at school there was always something to keep her busy — people to be visited, flowers to be picked, socks to be knitted, stories to be read, cakes to be baked. It was just that she noticed the ache more when she was alone.

  Often it happened at the same time as a tiny tender moment. Like the week before, when she had been digging in the garden bed and dislodged a handful of freesia bulbs. After all these years, the sight of them had set Nell’s heart aching for Johnny and her girls. Her thoughts went back to when she was given the freesias …

  On her wedding day, Nell couldn’t afford a bouquet. But when she arrived at the church, Johnny was waiting outside and handed her a posy of fresh freesias. Afterwards, Johnny explained how he’d noticed the perfume of some white flowers near the stop where he caught the tram to work. On the morning of the wedding, he plucked up the courage to knock on the door of the cottage where the flowers grew and to ask if he could pick a few for his sweetheart’s wedding bouquet. The lady who answered told Johnny to take as many as he wanted, and, in turn, Johnny invited her to come along to the church to meet his bride.

  That afternoon, when Nell and Johnny walked through the arched doorway and out into the sun together, the lady handed Nell a parcel wrapped in butcher’s paper and tied with yellow ribbon. Inside were a dozen freesia bulbs she had dug from her garden and on the paper was a handwritten message. Nell kept the paper with her wedding things: her mother’s gown, her blue garter and her veil. She could almost remember the words by heart.

  My name is Pearl Brady. On our wedding day, my husband, Maurice, gave me a dozen freesia bulbs wrapped in butcher’s paper and tied with yellow ribbon. We planted them in the front garden of our home, where we hoped they would multiply. We planned to have children and to share the freesia bulbs with them when they grew up and had gardens of their own. Maurice was a good man and would have made a wonderful father, but sadly we never had any children. So I’d like you to have these bulbs. They’re white freesias, the sweetest kind. Maurice passed away last year, but I’m sure he’d have wanted you to have them. I wish you health and happiness and children to give the freesias to.

  Before long, Nell and Johnny had a beautiful daughter and they named her Katie. Nell remembered thinking how lucky she and Johnny were. They picked a posy of freesias from their garden when they took Katie for her first visit to Pearl Brady’s house. Pearl had had her ninetieth birthday the day before and said that holding Katie was the best gift she could have wished for. Pearl passed away before Nell and Johnny’s second daughter, Ella, was born.

  The air was growing cool in the Valley of the Unicorns. Nell nudged another log of wood on to the fire. Steam rattled the billy lid and she tipped in a handful of tea leaves and stirred them with a eucalyptus twig. Ben should be coming soon.

  Ben had filled the emptiness in Nell’s heart after the accident that took Johnny and Katie and Ella away from her. He was only seven years old when he came from the orphanage to live with Nell. And when Ben became a man, he and Annie took Nell to live with them in the house on the hill that became the Kingdom of Silk. On the day they arrived, Nell presented Ben with a parcel. It was wrapped in butcher’s paper and tied with yellow ribbon. Nell had written a message on the paper.

  Dearest Ben, I couldn’t have asked for a better son than you. Johnny would have loved you too. These bulbs were grown from the ones given to Johnny and me on our wedding day. They’re white freesias, the sweetest kind. I call them Pearl’s freesias, after the lady who gave them to us. I hope you’ll plant them at our new home and that they’ll grow and multiply. I wish you health and happiness and children to give Pearl’s freesias to.

  The sound of bottles clinking together brought Nell back to the present. Ben was on his way. She unwrapped the sandwiches, arranged them on a plate and poured tea into the two enamel mugs, and by then the ache had eased.

  On the way home, Nell decided she was going to start writing all her rememberings into a book, just in case she ever forgot them.

  She would tell how her daddy, Jack Rose, used to ride his bicycle thirty kilometres to work in a mine and thirty home again, and how he made his fiddle sing at the dances on Saturday nights.

  She’d write about the dresses her mother made for her and her sisters, with hand-stitched smocking and embroidered rosebuds. Ruby, Florence and Alice Rose had all worn them before they were passed on to Nell, who was the youngest. When she grew up, Nell kept them wrapped in tissue paper, with dried lavender to keep the silverfish away. Katie and Ella wore them and then the Rainbow Girls. They were as frail as dragonfly wings now.

  On the wall of Annie’s studio is a portrait of another little girl: a baby with yellow curls and chubby cheeks, wearing another of the dresses Nell’s mother had made. This child was Tishkin, the youngest of Ben and Annie’s daughters. She left in the night while the others were sleeping, without
a kiss or a cry or one last goodbye. Nell would write that in her book too, so other people would know how glad she was that Tishkin was laid to rest in a dress that once was hers: a tiny gown of memories.

  Nell was still thinking about what she would write in her book, when Ben steered the Bedford into their driveway. Perry, Layla and Griffin were swinging on the gate, cheeks as red as rosehips, hair as wild as brambles and smiles stretching from ear to ear. The Rainbow Girls had gone with Anik; Grandma Mosas had promised them a weaving lesson. But Perry, Layla and Griffin had come straight home with Annie. They wanted to tell Nell the good news about the festival. Before they left, Scarlet reminded them not to say anything about the dance.

  There are good secrets and bad secrets. Good secrets always make you feel happy. If you feel bad, it is a sign you shouldn’t keep the secret to yourself. You should talk about it with someone you trust. Perry Angel knew the difference. This secret was one of the best he’d ever had.

  The children rode the rusty gate until it clicked shut then raced up the red gravel drive behind the truck, laughing as they ran.

  7. Falling

  If only the children had not been waiting for the Bedford. If only they’d stayed inside till Nell arrived. If only there’d been no ache under Nell’s primrose cardigan. If only she hadn’t known the best cure for such an ache is to hug someone you love. If only the world’s leading authority on tender moments had waited until her gallant son opened the door of his truck for her. If only the step hadn’t been so high. If only the soles of her elastic-sided boots were not so worn.

  But Nell flung the door to the truck open as wide as the door to her heart. She leant her head around the corner so she could see Griffin, Layla, Perry, Blue and Barney Blacksheep running up the hill to meet her. All it took was a second when Nell’s heart was so happy her head didn’t think.

  The queen of reading hearts slipped.

  She tumbled down the step, hit her head on the door, landed crookedly on the hard red gravel and lay there as still and pale as a china doll.

  Although Nell’s eyes were open, she stared as though she didn’t see the children who had rushed to her side, like chicks to a hen, shocked at what they saw. A scribbly red line in the shape of Africa marked the place where Nell’s forehead had hit the Bedford’s door. Her skirt was torn, her knitted red socks were bunched around her ankles. One leg looked like it was joined on all wrong. Like it didn’t fit, didn’t belong. Already it was turning the colours of a summer thunderstorm. It looked very much like a leg that would never be any good for dancing.

  The joyful secrets drained from the children’s hearts. The blush faded from their cheeks. Nell didn’t look like Nell. She looked like an old, old lady.

  ‘Tell Mama to ring Doctor Larsson. Quick!’ Ben cried out and Layla and Griffin ran to find Annie, their hearts pounding against the thin walls of their chests, their mouths as dry as deserts.

  Perry stayed. He knelt beside Nell, his bare knees pressed into the gravel. Ben spread the tartan picnic rug over the small, silent bundle that was his mother. Tenderly he brushed wisps of silver hair away from the sticky map of Africa, kissed her cheek and rubbed her hands between his.

  Perry knew the feeling of Ben’s hands. Gentle hands that could smooth hard lumps of worry until they melted away like butter from under your skin. Strong hands that held you tight so you couldn’t slip into the tar pit of fear. Hands that knew exactly when you needed holding. Ben would know how to look after Nell just right, Perry told himself.

  ‘Stay awake just a bit longer, Mum. Doc Larsson will be here soon.’

  Nell didn’t answer but Ben kept on talking.

  ‘Remember when I was a boy,’ he said, not knowing what Nell had been thinking that afternoon. ‘Remember how you used to read Anne of Green Gables to me, Mum. Do you remember? Remember how I loved it? Nod your head if you can hear me, Mum. Please don’t go to sleep. Mum, Mum, Doc Larsson will be here any minute. He’ll want to have a word with you.’

  Annie came with arms full of pink and yellow checked blankets and a message from the doctor. Ben looked up at her and his face was a jelly mask, slowly but surely melting. It was clear to Perry that Ben felt like a boy again because his mum was hurt.

  Perry remembered how he felt when he first came to the Kingdom of Silk. He remembered standing under the Cox’s Orange Pippin, seeing the other children happily playing up there in the tree house. He’d wanted so badly to climb up with them, to breathe in the milky blue sky until he was so full of it there was no room left for anything else. But fear nailed his feet to the ground and he clung to the handle of his small and shabby suitcase unable to answer. It was Ben who took his hand that day and smoothed the lumps of worry from under his skin.

  Perry put his arms around Ben’s neck, knitted his fingers together and pressed his cheek and chest as close as he could against Ben’s back. He breathed in the familiar smell of the old cable-knit jumper Nell had knitted from Barney Blacksheep’s wool. He closed his eyes tightly.

  I love you, Benny. I love you, Nell. He locked his teeth as tight as prison bars and said the words in a secret part of him. He said them fierce and strong like a spell that would keep them all safe. He said them angrily too. Angry with himself because he had made his one small wish too late. Now Nell and Jenkins might never dance together. Perry said the locked-in I love you words over and over so he would not cry.

  Mr Elliott arrived in his car to take Layla home. He wasn’t very good at fixing things like vacuum cleaners or leaky pipes, but he was calm and kind and knew about first aid.

  ‘Nell’s not talking!’ cried Layla. ‘She looks at us, but doesn’t say anything. What’s wrong with her, Daddy?’

  ‘Sometimes when people have had a shock they can’t talk and they want to sleep. But it’s better if they stay awake. That’s why Ben’s talking to Nell.’

  ‘Can’t we take her inside where it’s warm?’ asked Layla. ‘Please, Daddy, the ground’s so hard and Nell’s so soft.’

  ‘Ben’s doing all the right things,’ said Mr Elliott. ‘It’s best not to move Nell until the ambulance comes, in case she’s broken any bones.’

  ‘Her leg looks very broken,’ said Layla.

  ‘Bones can be mended,’ said Mr Elliott.

  ‘What about heads?’ Layla asked, looking at the map of Africa.

  ‘It might just need some stitches, but I’m only a first-aid man,’ her daddy answered. ‘Let’s wait and see what Doctor Larsson says.’

  Mr Elliott offered to take the Silk children back to his house, but none of them wanted to leave Nell, so he and Layla stayed too. Doctor Larsson brought the Rainbow Girls with him. They hugged each other and Annie while the doctor listened to Nell’s heart, measured her blood pressure and gave her an injection to ease the pain. Afterwards the doctor talked quietly with Ben and then telephoned someone at a hospital in the city far away from Cameron’s Creek.

  The minutes seemed like hours. Zeus, Nell’s one-eyed crow, kept a lookout from the roof of Ben’s shed. He cocked his head to the side, watched the moon rise with his one white eye, felt the wind ruffle his blue-black feathers and listened to the quiet rush of the Milky Way. But it was Blue who was first to know the ambulance was on its way. He felt the sound of it come up through the earth under his belly. The old deaf dog crept as close as he could to Nell and lay down with his head on her chest, whimpering as though he knew they were coming to take her away. Layla kissed Nell goodbye when the ambulance arrived. Then her daddy drove her home.

  Ben folded Annie into his arms then climbed into the back of the ambulance with Nell. Slowly, carefully, the ambulance eased its way between the potholes in the long gravel driveway. Red and blue lights smeared the gathering darkness. Annie and her children watched as they veered left onto the Silk Road and then right onto the highway towards the city. Then the sirens started and the ambulance was swallowed up by the folds of the hills. It was May thirty-first, the last of the golden days.

  8. The Fir
st Night Without Nell

  The Kingdom of Silk seemed empty that night. The kitchen felt as big as Saint Benedict’s hall. On other evenings, Ben might still be in his shed, but Nell would be there in the kitchen. It is a deep mystery that when a person so small is gone, they leave such a large emptiness. Such mysteries are not new to the Silk family. There is still a Tishkin-shaped emptiness in their hearts.

  No-one could remember a night without Nell. Everywhere they looked were reminders of her. The pot of soup she had made that morning still simmered slowly on the stove. In the middle of the table was Nell’s old teapot, with the chipped spout and the knitted cosy. Her favourite apron hung on a hook beside the door and pinned to the mantelpiece was Nell’s to-do list, written on the back of a used envelope.

  Take socks and silver beet to Henry.

  Post letter to Sunday Lee.

  Meals on Wheels — my turn next week.

  Even Blue and Barney were restless. Instead of settling down for the night on the couch on the veranda, they stood at the front door and looked longingly down the passage through the flyscreen. Blue yipped politely and Barney bleated pitifully until Annie felt sorry for them and told Violet to let them inside. They lay on the hearth in front of the stove where Nell had raised each of them — Blue the runt of a litter and Barney an orphaned lamb. Having the animals there made the room slightly less empty. Indigo turned the radio on. But no-one danced, no-one sang.

  Saffron set eight places at the table. Annie ladled soup into eight bowls, but no-one seemed hungry. Usually, Indigo argued about doing the washing-up and when it was her turn, washed as noisily as she could, clattering china, crashing cutlery and sloshing soapsuds onto the floor. But tonight she cleared the table, stacked the dishes on the sink and washed quietly and slowly without being asked.

 

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