by Cate Kendall
From above came the soft sounds of a woman weeping. Ellie gave her companion a wry smile and they moved together into the huge, toasty warm kitchen. They sank into a pair of threadbare, overstuffed club chairs pulled up close to the open fire.
A pot of tea sat brewing on the heavy oak table between them. Sarah poured the tea and handed a steaming cup over to her sister.
‘Mmmm,’ said Ellie appreciatively, ‘you still make the best cup of tea in the world.’
‘It’s all in the brewing,’ smiled Sarah. ‘That, and warming the pot first.’
‘Quiet night tonight?’ Ellie asked.
‘Yes, we had a full house all week but most of them have moved on,’ Sarah explained. ‘There are only two here who are seeing the counsellor tomorrow. I don’t know how long they’ll stay,’ she mused.
‘As long as they want, I should imagine,’ said Ellie with a smile, knowing her sister very well.
‘When they’re ready, there’s plenty of time.’
The women relaxed back in their chairs, warmed by the flames, tea, and just being close to each other again. Ellie’s thoughts finally stopped swirling through her head as she sat mesmerised by the dancing flames. She could feel her face glowing with heat as she revelled in the peace of being here: being with Sarah.
‘So,’ her sister eventually broke the quiet, ‘what’s actually happened?’
Reality hit Ellie hard. For a few moments she’d escaped the horrible facts, but now she had to face it all again. Tears spilled down her face as she leaned forward to grasp Sarah’s hand and begin her story.
‘Bryce rang me in the middle of the school production last week. I could hardly hear him over the noise, but finally I realised what he was trying to tell me. The building – that building,’ she looked at Sarah meaningfully, ‘has been sold. But worse than that, apparently it’s like a time capsule inside. They sealed it up in 1984 and nothing’s been touched since.’
Sarah clutched Ellie’s hand harder, turning pale in the firelight. ‘So are the photos still there then?’ she asked.
‘Yes, they are, and one of the other school families has bought the property and now has all the promotional material – the posters, the flyers, it’s all there!’
‘But surely it will just get thrown out?’ Sarah asked.
‘The stupid woman has decided to exhibit it as some kind of wretched retro exercise in self-promotion or something!’
Sarah gave a sharp intake of breath.
‘I know, it’s such bad luck. We had been trying to buy the building ourselves for years so we could torch it and get on with our lives. I just knew that something like this would happen if we didn’t – and now it has.
‘So now it’s too late and I’m ruined, there’s nothing I can do. And when word is out, I’ll be a social pariah. Plus I’ve lied to my friends all this time – except for darling Mim, I told her last week – but how will the others ever trust me again.’ Ellie sobbed hard, leaning in to her sister.
‘Come on, sweetie,’ Sarah comforted her, tucking Ellie’s tear-soaked hair behind her ear, ‘We’ve been through much, much worse together and survived. And we’ll make it through this, together – I promise.’ Sarah smiled, giving her big sister a hug and moving into the kitchen to make another pot of tea and grilled cheese sandwiches.
‘But Sarah, you don’t understand: no one will speak to me, no one will want to know me. I’ll be publicly shamed,’ Ellie sniffed, her head leaden from crying.
‘Okay, so tell me the worst thing that can happen,’ Sarah answered in her calm way.
‘Well, I’ll be the laughing stock of the whole school and the whole city. I’ll be dis-invited from all sorts of fabulous events. I’ll be hideously humiliated and I’ll never be able to show my face again,’ Ellie sobbed.
‘Okay, so is that all?’ Sarah asked simply.
‘Hello? Isn’t that enough,’ Ellie snapped sarcastically.
‘But what about your life – your real life? Will that be affected?’
‘Excuse me, that is my real life.’
‘No it’s not, that’s all just surface stuff: what the mums at school think of you; what the social set says you did or didn’t do; who likes you or doesn’t like you; whether they gossip about you or not – it won’t be pretty, I know, but it’s not the end of the world.’
Sometimes Ellie could strangle her pragmatic sister. ‘Okay then, you tell me, Miss Straight-and-Narrow, what would be the end of the world then?’
‘Losing Bryce, Paris or Rupert,’ she answered. ‘Is that likely to happen?’
‘Well no,’ Ellie hesitated, realising she’d been outsmarted. ‘But what if the kids get wind of it?’
‘So? Just be honest with them, the truth will never hurt them. It’d do them good to have a small dose of reality in that perfect little synthetic world they live in.’
Ellie visually flinched at that and Sarah quickly apologised. ‘Oh sweetie, I’m sorry, that was mean of me. But your kids could be a lot tougher than you think; and it’s true, it would be good for them to know that actually very little in life is perfect, everyone has hard times – it’s not all designer labels and fancy parties in real life, is it?’
‘I suppose not,’ Ellie conceded. ‘It’s just after what we went through I really want to keep them in a safe bubble of perfection for as long as I can.’
‘But Ellie, is it worth it for the work you have to do maintaining it? Keeping secrets like this will destroy you eventually.’
‘I know. Anyway, it won’t be a secret much longer.’
The sisters talked on for hours, and by midnight Ellie was almost starting to feel as if everything would be okay after all.
‘Sarah, you’re a marvel.’ She smiled at her sister. ‘I haven’t had a moment’s peace since this began, but then I came here and you’ve put it all into perspective for me. Like you said, “what’s the worst that can happen?” I mean, maybe I’ll be ostracised by some and lose my social status – but I’ll have what’s most important to me: you, the kids and Bryce. And that’s all that really matters in the end.’ She breathed her first deep breath in days and reflected on the amazingly therapeutic power of the house. Much of it had to do with Sarah, of course, but it was also the peaceful bush setting and the sense of comfort and serenity that the house itself offered.
It wasn’t the first time she had called on its soothing powers.
One night many years ago, a night that was seared forever into Ellie’s memory like a deep scar, she had woken up in the early hours during one of their mother’s many parties to become instantly aware of another presence in the pathetic little room she shared with Sarah. Her eyes adjusted to the dark as quickly as it took her to sit up and realise what was happening.
A man was on top of her sister. Sarah’s bright eyes were staring in horror over the huge hand that was muffling her screams. Her stick-like white legs were spread and looked like they were threatening to snap under the weight of the man. Ellie picked up the only weapon she had on hand, her science textbook, and whacked him over the head with all her might.
He roared and leapt up, swinging a powerful arm back that connected with the side of Ellie’s head. She went down and whacked her head on the bed leg. When she came to, seconds later, Sarah was leaning over her, calling her name. The stranger was gone.
Ellie had never forgotten the look of horror and pain on her sister’s face. They’d left that night, run to Mrs Mac for help and been referred to this house in the country – a refuge, a place where young girls could seek care and support while they got themselves on their feet. It had been a godsend for the sisters, a balm for their troubled and damaged souls. The fiercely independent Ellie stayed a week with her little sister but, determined to support them both, returned to the city to earn the money for their future.
In those days Mrs Lovell ran the house, and she cared for Sarah like she was her own, seeing that she got the quiet therapy she needed. After their mother’s overdose, and with no oth
er family to turn to, Sarah was given the chance to regain a normal life by going to the local school and grow up in this untraditional, yet loving, surrogate family. She contributed by helping out with the guest meals and housework and Ellie sent her money whenever she could.
After high school, Sarah completed a psychology course at an adult education centre and continued to work with Mrs Lovell. And when the older woman retired, Sarah took over the running of the hostel: her home. She could empathise with the lost souls who found their way there. The girls who needed little more than kindness and understanding; a warm bed and some nutritious food. She doled out all in generous proportions. Sarah was careful to never actually break the law, although sometimes she sailed pretty close to it in order to protect girls terrified of being returned to abusive parents or partners.
Now, as the fire turned to glowing embers and the sisters drank their way through a final pot of tea, Ellie’s anxiety was soothed. They had decided on a course of action. At last it was time for sleep.
‘I’ve put you in your usual room,’ Sarah told her, leading the way upstairs. ‘Sorry it’s so freezing, but the heater’s on the blink. I’ve left lots of blankets in there and tucked in a hot-water bottle for you.’
‘Thanks, gorgeous,’ said Ellie, giving Sarah a hug as they reached the first landing. ‘I’ll be fine.’
Sarah went into her own room and Ellie continued up the next flight of stairs to the top floor. Sarah was right, the house was freezing away from the warmth of the kitchen fire. From outside Ellie could hear the familiar sound of the gum trees swishing against the slate roof, possums moving around in the ceiling and, from far away, the sea murmuring to itself. They were all sounds that Ellie now associated with safety.
Creeping slowly down the hall on the Persian runner, she found her way to Room 11 by the soft glow of the antique wall sconces. The house was silent, sighing softly to itself as its timbers and beams adjusted themselves into a more comfortable position.
She jiggled the old key in the temperamental lock until it finally gave way and she was standing on the threshold of her own little haven. This was somewhere that Bryce had never been, a place that her children didn’t know about and that was kept secret from even her closest friends. This was a part of Ellie that was truly her own.
Little of the simple decor had changed since her first night in the room all those years ago when she had been a frightened big sister desperate for Sarah’s safety and the hope of a better future for both of them. She flicked on the light and sat on the beautiful worn chintz armchair to pull off her boots. She threw them carelessly (forgetting what they had cost, who had designed them and the reverential treatment they normally commanded) onto the threadbare carpet and turned back the covers of her wrought iron bed.
A white waffle cover that Mrs Lovell had made for her still covered the sheets, which were the kind of simple, soft flannelette that Ellie hadn’t slept under for years. Welcoming and warm, the bed swallowed her problems and lulled her to sleep to the sound of the wind in the eucalypts and the secure thought that her sister slept in the room beneath her.
‘Here’s to another balls-up,’ said Ellie, raising her glass of bubbly in greeting to Mim. ‘Of course, it’s not technically a disaster yet, but this early in the evening it could still go either way,’ she laughed.
Ellie, revived from her secret country retreat, looked stunning in an impossibly snug, ankle-skimming, blue-velvet Donna Karan number. She was a picture of elegance and old money – which was perfect given the Richly Royal theme of this year’s Langholme Grammar Winter Soiree.
The Winter Soiree (held in autumn, before it got too cold for skin-baring eveningwear) was a must on the school social calendar. It was intended as a friendly mixer, but was actually an intensive networking opportunity for mothers jostling for position on the Langholme Grammar social scene, and for dads keen to schmooze business contacts. The right outfit, an amusing anecdote and the occasional shrewd observation could cement invitations to all the best children’s parties and mean the difference between being relegated to the fairy-floss machine or serving high tea in pretty starched linen aprons at the school fete.
As soon as the Spring Racing Carnival ended the mums packed up their feathered millinery and began plotting the ultimate fashion statement for the Winter Soiree – well, at least the smart women did. Each year the Langholme Grammar social committee announced a new theme for the ball – heralding cries of complaint and joy from the school community. For the week following the announcement, cafés across the suburbs were abuzz as mums sipped their lattes and planned to extract the maximum glamour from any given theme.
Last year’s Provincial Picnic theme had made the wearing of diamonds, silk and furs difficult to justify – but several mothers had pulled it off with aplomb and reaped the social-status benefits for the past twelve months.
This year’s theme made everyone happy. With the recent ascent of ‘our Mary’ to European royalty, the school’s social team had conjured up the Richly Royal theme and sent mums into a frenzy of historical fashion research (reading old Vogues).
Somehow the Triple Ds had managed to work leather and multiple piercings into their regal ensembles, and the CPM came as J-Lo and Christine Aguilera (pop royalty), while the Mothers’ Superior were in their element as Anne Boleyns, Anna Kareninas, some Joan of Arcs and a smattering of Mary Queen of Scots. The bigger the martyr, the better.
The glittering event was always held at an exclusive inner-city South Yarra function centre. For weeks beforehand the social committee was in a tizz arranging decorations. This year the room resembled a rich fusion of Versace meets Versailles.
‘Christ, Mim, I can barely walk in this frock,’ moaned Ellie, struggling to inhale.
‘But it’s worth it, Ellie. You look unbelievable,’ said Mim.
‘True,’ agreed Ellie. ‘And if one must suffer in life, at least let it be for fashion!’ She glanced around. ‘So, James a no-show this evening?’ She asked while keeping one eye on the action over Mim’s shoulder.
‘At a work thing again. It was last minute, of course, always is,’ Mim sighed. ‘He promises he’ll drop in later, though,’ she added, not holding out much hope. ‘I don’t know, Ellie, I’m starting to think he’s intentionally avoiding us. Surely he could have ditched the meeting, he knows how important tonight is!’
‘Mim, darling, what’s happening?’ Ellie said in concern, her voice dropping to a whisper as she noticed Hortense Mathews at a nearby group distinctly put her head on one side trying to catch the gossip.
‘Oh, it’s James, sweetie, we’re just at loggerheads constantly at the moment. I’m beside myself with worry,’ said Mim. ‘But seriously, this is neither the time nor the place for such misery: we’re supposed to be having a ball!’
‘So the invitation said, darling, but I’m yet to see the evidence. Let’s talk tomorrow,’ Ellie suggested.
‘Thanks, sweet, that’d be great,’ and with a massive effort Mim plastered her very best social smile on her face and serenely looked out at the room. Standing atop the wide marble staircase on the top floor of the centre, they were in a perfect position to people-watch.
Mim was thrilled with this year’s theme: with her dark locks and slim build, a Mary Donaldson tribute had been easy to conjure. The silk bridesmaid’s dress from her sister’s wedding was perfectly royal and hadn’t been seen among this set – it was full-length, charcoal with a white bodice and white Chanel Camelia under the bust-line. And really she couldn’t be bothered to go to any more trouble than recycling a frock; the effort of pulling another fashion trick out of her hat for every new social function was wearing her down. Most of the other Langholme mums seemed to have the stamina for it, but lately Mim had felt a growing sense of unease about the extravagance of new outfits and the showing off that went along with them.
As they made their way down the stairs, Mim could just catch the heavenly tones of the string quartet above the cacophony of shrieked wel
comes and ‘hello dahlings’ as the night really got underway. All around them smartly uniformed waiters with laden drink trays attempted to navigate the ocean of frocks while being buffeted into silk eddies and swept along by sequined currents.
‘Where’s Tiff, are they here yet?’ Ellie asked.
Mim smiled to herself, thinking of Tiffany’s big surprise. ‘No, I haven’t seen her, she’s been in Portsea for the past six weeks, but she’s definitely coming. I don’t think we will miss her big entrance.’
‘What big entrance?’ Ellie asked, face aghast. ‘She’s not wearing that horrible salmon-taffeta puffy skirt again, is she? I realise she thinks it hides her chunky butt, but someone has to tell her. Eighties fashion may be retro and dead trendy right now, but there are definite rules: if you wore it then, you’re too old to wear it now!’
Throwing back the last of her champagne, Ellie spied a perfect example of tragic design sense just behind her. Indicating the fashion victim to Mim, she said, ‘Case in point at five o’clock. What was she thinking?’
Mim spied a look at Bunny Burroughs, who was resplendent in a diamond tiara, and a mauve silk evening gown that was way too much flounce and far too much lace. Her 1980s Farrah Fawcett ‘do’ topped off the look.
‘Don’t be such a bitch, Ellie, maybe she’s paying homage to Lady Di,’ said Mim, nudging Ellie, who was staring quite openly.
‘Darling, the only thing she’s paying homage to is the look she found in 1982 and hasn’t strayed from since. She hasn’t moved a fashion muscle in well over twenty years, poor love.’ Ellie was distracted by a new entrant. ‘Hmmm, look over there, that’s interesting,’ she said, pointing with her chin in the direction of the door and managing to deftly swipe two more bubblys from a waiter who floated by.
‘What? Oh, isn’t that Charmaine and Edward Heatherington? He’s a surgeon, isn’t he? Love her look, very Russian Royal family; very Romanovs – such a tragedy. So what’s the big deal?’