The letter part of the fantasy proved distracting when she remembered that there was still no further word from home. It surprised her to realise that she had not thought about home for some days. It felt like a sort of betrayal – of herself and of her mother – and she was relieved when her thoughts returned to Harry in the muddy trenches of the Western Front. It was the wrong war, but she simply could not shift the action to the jungles of New Guinea. Her mind would not cooperate.
From the devastation of the Somme, she drifted onto the problem of her need for a bra, which had still not been solved, wondering what to do about it. Although Lydia had ignored her since the startling revelations about Harry, there remained the fact of that brief and exhilarating hug. And there was the confession itself, divulged to her, as one would to a trusted friend. It gave her hope that she might approach Lydia more directly and she began to think about getting up and going in search of her aunt. In a minute. But a minute passed, and she did not move. The heat had sapped all her energy.
The sun had gone down hours ago, but night had brought no relief. To add to it all, the air was filled with the shrill drumming of a cicada outside the French doors of the white room. In an effort to escape the demented drilling she buried her head under the pillow, but it made little difference.
She kicked at the sheet, which had become twisted around her legs. The more she struggled, the more entangled she became, as if the sheet had a will of its own and was determined to hold her prisoner. When at last she managed to free herself, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up. The cicada continued boring a hole in her head.
She stepped onto the verandah and the cicada, alerted to the presence of something foreign, stopped its infernal din, leaving the echo-y silence of an empty cave. A breeze, still carrying the heat from sun-blasted paddocks, blew strands of hair across her face. Just to her right was the dark shape of William’s old punching bag. She pushed it with her fingertips and set it swinging.
At the edge of the verandah, she hesitated, surprised to find herself there at all. But then the hot night drew her on, and in a few strides she felt the sharp scratch of buffalo grass on the soles of her bare feet. She looked up at the starry sky, feeling the flutter of air against her face. An unexpected sense of elation rushed through her body and, throwing back her head, she twirled on the spot until, overcome by dizziness, she lost her balance and collapsed on the lawn.
The grass pricked her skin, uncomfortable but not unpleasant. The black sky was filled with diamond-bright stars. In Melbourne the stars were paler, and fewer in number. The sky was smaller too, bumping against the tops of city buildings, unlike the vast, unreachable expanse into which she was now gazing. Drifting.
Then something rustled in the bushes and she sat up with a start. A night bird shrieked, and the flap of a moth’s wing brushed her face. Dry leaves crunched under the weight of a passing creature. The sense she’d had of being protected by the warm night air deserted her, and she felt invisible animal presences all around, observing her movements, taking in her scent, listening to her every breath. The night belonged to them and she was an intruder. She sprang to her feet and ran back across the lawn.
In bed again, with the sheet pulled up to her chin, something odd happened. She began to notice the pressure of the sheet against her nipples. By moving a little one way and then the other, a pleasant tingling sensation was created. Without thinking of what she was doing, she pushed up her cotton pyjama top and gently squeezed one breast. A rush of pleasure fizzed in the place between her legs. It was the same kind of feeling she’d experienced while reading Fanny Hill, only more so, and perhaps she should have expected it. But she had not and she gave a shocked gasp. Since finishing the book, she’d tried to avoid even thinking of Fanny’s exploits. Now those exploits came rushing back, to be followed, once again, by an image of the regal Miss Maunder and a memory of the headmistress’s special presentation to the class on ‘Self-Reverence and True Modesty’. In her mind, she heard Miss Maunder’s words with new force. According to the headmistress, there were only two types of girls: ‘good-time gels’ and ‘gels who respected their bodies’. Good-time gels were doomed to a miserable life, cast out from decent society and destined for penury. Miss Maunder had made it clear that enjoyment of bodily pleasure was the indelible signature of the good-time gels.
Practising the self-restraint that she’d shown with Fanny Hill – that is, once she’d finished the book she had resisted rereading certain passages despite the temptation to do so – proved to be impossible in relation to her own body. Each night, before falling asleep, her fingers found their way between her legs and, with the memory of Fanny’s adventures to aid her, she discovered how to arouse herself. There was no need to read Fanny Hill, or even to think of Fanny’s adventures at all. If only she could stop doing it, and she promised herself that tomorrow – yes, tomorrow – would be the very last time.
21
AFTER A NUMBER OF TOMORROWS, Sunday came around once more and, standing in the church with hands clasped together and head bowed in prayer, she’d begged God to give her the strength to resist the temptation of her body. It was the first real prayer she had uttered in a long time, mentally addressing God with a capital G out of a hopeful respect, having earlier downgraded him to a lower case g because of his probable non-existence.
Whether it was the power of prayer, or the fact that Eunice had added to her workload, she could not tell but, over the next few days and nights, she remained pure and did not think of Fanny at all. Nor did she visit the workshop. The letter to Dorothy, which had grown to more than ten pages, was still unfinished. There were many more things she wished to tell Dorothy, but they would have to wait. In the meantime, at least, the torments of the flesh had receded.
Sitting now at the men’s dining table as the afternoon was drifting into evening, she waited for Claudio where they had arranged to meet for a lesson. Only minutes earlier Grandmother had released her from polishing the brass firescreen in the billiard room. In fact, Grandmother had seemed quite annoyed to discover Eunice’s hand in it and had muttered something about ‘slave labour’ before telling Emily to run along.
Claudio was late. Perhaps he was not coming at all. She went to the kitchen flywire and called out to Della. ‘Have you seen Claudio?’
Della came to the door. ‘Wagging school, is he?’ she said with a laugh.
Della always called it school. Since the first lesson, she and Florrie often came to listen. They were especially keen on the stories. Verbs, nouns and adverbs were of less interest.
‘He was here for arvo tea,’ Della said. ‘Haven’t seen him since.’
She waited for another ten minutes before setting off in search of him, although she was halfway up the rise towards the shearers’ quarters before admitting to herself that this was her goal. It was only to check in case something had happened; she didn’t bother to think what could have happened or what use she would be in the event that it had.
At the shearers’ quarters, the door to Claudio’s room was wide open. Otherwise she would never have peered in. The room was small and square. A cupboard took up part of one wall. Under the louvred window was a narrow shearer’s stretcher bed made up with a grey blanket. Beside the bed was a small table with a piece of lino glued to the top. A hurricane lamp sat on the table. At the foot of the bed was a large tin trunk and, next to it, a pair of boots, the heels worn down and tongues hanging out as if exhausted.
Having failed to find Claudio, there was no reason to linger, but seeing his boots brought an unexpected lump to her throat. They spoke of his presence and his absence all at once. How lonely he must be. She hovered in the doorway, reluctant to leave. It was all so modest – there had to be more. She wanted to know something more about him, and it was this desire that drew her eye back to the trunk at the end of the bed. What harm could there be in taking a look?
She moved into the room. Kneeling down, she flicked open the latches and pushed
up the lid of the trunk to find herself staring at a thick white towel. Until now, she’d completely forgotten the Belle’s story about the cowardly Italians and their snowy white towels, packed by their mothers and which they had waved in surrender. She had dismissed it as just another fiction, made up by an unreliable storyteller. But here one was, exactly as the Belle had described.
It didn’t prove anything. Claudio would never have surrendered without a fight. Hadn’t she seen him in the churchyard? For the first time it occurred to her that Claudio might have fought Australians. Perhaps he’d even killed some. Obviously he’d fought on the wrong side, but it all seemed a long time ago and so far away. Kneeling at the open trunk, she wondered what was worse: that he was a coward who’d waved the white towel at the first sign of fighting? Or a brave warrior who had killed Australian soldiers? She couldn’t help it – she hoped he hadn’t been a coward.
She was about to close the trunk when something attracted her eye. She leaned forwards to get a closer look and realised, with a shock, that it was Lydia’s white handkerchief lying, neatly folded, in the centre of the towel. It was almost invisible, white on white, except for a faded brownish stain that must have been Claudio’s blood. There was no doubt about it. This was the handkerchief Lydia had asked her to collect the day she’d taken him the rabbits. And now here it was, freshly laundered and carefully stowed away. Why hadn’t he returned it to Lydia? She could hear Della saying: Curiosity killed the blinking cat. Then her mother’s voice joined in: What you don’t know can’t hurt you. But it was too late now, she did know, even if she was still unsure what, exactly. She let the lid of the trunk fall shut and left the room, hurrying away around the corner of the building with her mother’s words echoing inside her head.
Back at the house, Florrie was now sitting at the men’s dining table with a large enamel bowl of hot water, plucking a headless chicken. Her dress was covered in feathers, and fluffy bits of down were stuck in her stiff black hair.
‘You won’t find him,’ Florrie announced. ‘He was looking for you. They’ve gone off to fix a mill.’
‘Oh.’ She made a disappointed grimace while experiencing a secret rush of relief. The combined discovery of Claudio’s white towel and Lydia’s handkerchief had left her feeling rattled. She collected her books and lesson notepad from the table. The clotted reek of hot wet feathers and the sight of pimpled chicken flesh were making her nauseous. No wonder there were vegetarians in the world. It was something her mother had embraced during a short infatuation with Percy Grainger and his music, but her father had put a stop to it. He had the patience of Job, he’d told Emily, but even so, there were limits.
Intending to leave her books and papers in the white room, she took the verandah route around the house. When she got to the billiard-room door it was open, letting in the hot air. Grandmother and Eunice would be irritated. She entered the room and pulled the door closed behind her. What did it matter if Claudio had surrendered without a fight? It was better than being killed in action. But why had he kept Lydia’s handkerchief? Why hide it away like a treasure? She wished the word treasure had not occurred to her. As she passed the billiard table, the equally unwelcome word keepsake popped into her head. And then something on the edge of her vision made her glance towards the mantelpiece. Books slipped from her fingers, banging onto the floorboards, and her breath burst from her in a shocked exhalation.
‘Roy?’
He was standing beside the mantelpiece. But he wasn’t allowed in the house. She looked around for Grandmother. Had she given her permission? There was nobody else in the room and Roy was moving towards her. Her heart was banging against her ribs.
‘It’s alright,’ he said quietly. ‘No need to be scared.’
‘I’m not.’ And then in an attempt to prove she was in control of things, she said, ‘You shouldn’t be in here.’
He stopped in front of her, and she saw that he was holding the greenstone axe head. He did not try to hide it.
She pointed at the stone. ‘That belongs on the mantelpiece.’
Roy looked down at the axe head, turning it over in his hand.
The verandah door opened, and Grandmother stepped inside. She was halfway across the room before she saw them.
‘Roy?’ she said in a startled voice. ‘Emily?’
Roy nodded to Grandmother. ‘Missus.’ Then he nodded to Emily too and, without hurrying, walked past them both and out through the door.
‘What is going on? What was Roy doing in here?’
There was no time to think. The safest answer was always ignorance. ‘Nothing. I don’t know.’
Picking up her dropped books, she departed the room via the internal door. Grandmother called her name, but she ignored it and hurried along the hallway until she reached the white room. She threw the books on the bed, closed the door and left. She did not want to be questioned and was sure that her grandmother would not pursue her into the orchard.
At the cherry plum tree, she stopped. Where had Roy gone? There was no sign of him.
It was ten past seven and Uncle Cec had not arrived for dinner. Grandmother said grace and gave the go-ahead for those present to begin without him. There was no point letting the meal get any colder.
Uncle Cec finally arrived at half-past seven. He pulled out his chair and sat down unceremoniously. ‘Roy’s gone.’
Grandmother’s fork paused in mid-air. ‘Gone? He was in the billiard room this afternoon.’
Eunice startled as if she’d been shot. ‘Billiard room? What was he doing in the billiard room?’
Grandmother turned to Emily, which made Eunice do so too.
‘Emily?’ Grandmother enquired.
‘I don’t know. He didn’t say anything to me.’ She had not made a conscious decision to lie; it was as if the words spoke themselves while she watched on.
‘Well, he’s not there now,’ Uncle Cec said. ‘Best damn stockman and he’s up sticks and gone. Damn and blast the man.’
‘Language, Cecil,’ Grandmother said.
‘He must have had a reason to leave.’ Lydia spoke for the first time.
‘Family business, I expect.’ Uncle Cec speared a piece of meat with an aggressive thrust of his fork.
‘If he has family business he should ask for permission to leave,’ Grandmother responded.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ Lydia broke in. ‘He’s not at school. Anyway, he’s sure to come back when he can.’
But Uncle Cec was not to be appeased. ‘The place is going to rack and ruin. If this damn war doesn’t end soon we might as well walk off the joint too.’
‘That’s quite enough,’ Grandmother said. ‘Let us at least enjoy our dinner without having to listen to your prophecies of doom and gloom.’
In the days following Roy’s departure, Emily waited for someone to notice that the greenstone axe head had disappeared from the billiard-room mantelpiece. But no-one did. She’d thought of confiding in Della and asking her advice as to whether she should tell Grandmother that Roy had stolen it. She felt sure Della would know what to do, and yet, each time there was an opportunity to ask her, she had prevaricated. It was the memory of how Roy had kept the knowledge of her presence behind the pine tree to himself that first day. Didn’t she owe him the same silence? And then there was the other half-formed question: who did the axe head really belong to? The more she thought about it, the less certain she was that Roy had stolen anything.
22
EMILY WAS DRYING THE LAST of the washing up, silently lamenting the fact that what had begun as a choice the first night of her stay had become a chore. Now she was expected to help in the kitchen after dinner whether she wanted to or not. She picked up the gravy boat, feeling the injustice of it all.
Beside her at the sink, Florrie was scouring a pot when she cocked her head like a startled chook. ‘Someone’s coming,’ she said, anxiously. Florrie did not like surprises.
Emily listened. From outside came the sound of an approaching
vehicle.
‘Who the devil could that be?’ Della said. She too was listening intently.
‘Lydia?’ Emily suggested, knowing that Lydia was staying the night at the McDougalls’ to keep Ruth company while her husband, Orm, had gone to see his banker in Melbourne.
‘Thought she was coming back with you lot tomorrow after church,’ Della said.
The sound of the vehicle’s engine grew louder and then stopped. A door banged, and they heard footsteps hurrying along the verandah.
‘What are you waiting for?’ Della took the tea towel from her and gave her a push.
It was her job to go and investigate but, like Florrie, she felt a little anxious, for nobody ever called at Mount Prospect after dark. On the other hand, if it were Lydia, then Ruth might be the driver and she was keen to meet her. When Ruth had come to pick up Lydia, she’d been in the workshop, writing to Dorothy.
With Della urging her on, she left the kitchen, only to hear the car engine revving and the crunch of wheels over gravel, signalling that whoever had arrived had already departed. She entered the sitting room to find everyone clustered just inside the French doors. In the centre of the group was a figure in army uniform, leaning on a pair of crutches. Grandmother, Eunice and Uncle Cec were ushering the man forwards and, when they moved apart, Emily found herself staring into a familiar pair of deep-set eyes and a pale unshaven face. She felt the force of his gaze and looked away. It was then she realised what her eyes had been refusing to register: from below the knee of his left leg, there was nothing, just a flap of limp empty trouser leg.
The Unexpected Education of Emily Dean Page 14