Mallawindy

by Joy Dettman

  ‘You’ll take her. You bloody mummy’s boy, mealy-mouthed little bastard. Get out of my bloody sight.’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah. Well, you get out of our sight too. If you’re going to be like this every time you come home, then don’t bother coming home. Stay at your stupid Narrawee and just leave us alone here.’

  Jack stepped forward, his closed fist aimed at Ben, who ducked beneath the blow and picked up the fallen chair, using it as a barrier as he tried to go around his father. Jack snatched it, tossed it into the passage, then flung Ben after it.

  Ellie was grasping the table, trying to regain her feet when he hit her. She went down again. She lay on her side, protecting her stomach with hands and drawn-up knees. ‘Don’t, Jack. For the love of God. I’ve got to get to the hospital.’

  But he was out of control now. It had begun and wouldn’t end until it ended.

  Ann edged inside, edged along the wall to the wireless corner. She watched Ben run at the mad man, try to hold him. Jack caught him by the collar of his pyjamas, ripping the garment from him, exposing Ben’s too thin chest.

  Ben was the wrong build to play hero, all heart and guts, but no killer instinct. Blood streaming from a gash below his hairline, he sprang to his feet, dived at his father’s shoulders, locking his arms around his neck. Jack swung around, slamming him against the wall.

  ‘Get up, Mum. Run,’ Ben screamed, but Ellie lay where she had fallen. Too late to run. She’d done it again. Waited too long. She lay on the floor and wept.

  Noise was everywhere. Screaming. Bronwyn’s scream disappeared into the night. ‘I’m going for Bessy. I’ll ring up Bob Johnson . . .’

  ‘Get back here, you little bitch. Get back in here now.’

  Separate, Ann watched the players from her corner. She was away from it, in that other place. Reality, life, was out there with David. Life was parties. Life was love and arms to hold. Not this. Not this. This wasn’t real. Just a picture of a pregnant woman, moaning on the floor. Just a mad bull, rampaging. Bellowing.

  Bronwyn was miscast. Much too young for the role she had to play. They were all miscast. What is my role here? she thought. Do I have a role here? I should be in a motel bed with David, holding him inside me, loving him. Living life. Not here. Not in this place.

  ‘Annie,’ Ben screamed. ‘Annie, help me, for God’s sake. Help me. He’ll kill her.’

  Help? How? How do you fight a bull-man who has kicked out a wall and tossed the table at the door? Don’t get in his way. That’s how. You stay out of his way.

  The baby got in the way of his shoe. A worn wedding band, two hands, drawn-up knees couldn’t protect it, and Ellie’s scream wouldn’t die.

  Ann moved fast as Ben picked up a broom, tossing it between the mad bull’s legs as he jumped on his back. The bull’s feet entangled in the broom, he overbalanced, and went down, Ben riding him triumphant to the floor.

  Ann picked up the gun that had lived for all her life behind the old wireless that no longer sang. Its weight surprised her. She looked at the red polished butt, at the barrel of gleaming metal. It was a thing of beauty, with a god-like power over life and death. Now her hands held it. They held the power of life, of death.

  Slowly she raised the barrel until it pointed at her father’s back. He scrambled awkwardly to his feet. ‘Bang,’ she said. ‘You’re dead.’

  Slowly he turned to her, saw the gun pointed at him. ‘Put that down, you crazy-eyed bitch.’ His smooth, dark-chocolate voice was confident, but his three fast steps back gave lie to that.

  The barrel of the gun followed him. Her eyes followed him.

  Ben’s twisted face followed him. She saw her brother’s hand go to his jaw. One hand, his other, was trying to lift Ellie.

  ‘It’s not loaded,’ Jack said, watching the hammers being lifted back.

  ‘It’s always loaded,’ she said.

  Jack had loved this gun, his father’s gun. He’d lavished care on it. His hands had cleaned it, oiled it, smoothed the polished wood that now felt warm and secure against Ann’s shoulder. She loved it too. Always had. So now she held it, and her finger was on the trigger.

  ‘Put it down, you stupid bitch of a girl. Put it down.’ But she laughed at his fear. Two drunks in the kitchen, and only one held the gun. It seemed very funny.

  Do it, she thought. Do it. Squeeze. Blast him away forever. Make life possible.

  But would the life it made be possible, or would it start a different cycle, a cycle without David? A cycle with barred windows. She remembered a barred window.

  ‘Annie. Help me. Jack. Help me.’

  Poor Ellie. Ben was trying to get her up. He couldn’t. He fell to her side, defeated, as she rolled to her back. ‘The baby. Help me!’ Ben on his knees now, was holding his jaw with his hand.

  Jack took two more paces backwards, glancing quickly from his wife to the gun.

  ‘Get me to the hospital, Jack. For the love of God. I’m bleeding. Help me.’

  Ann watched her father’s mouth snap shut, and panic race down the dark corridors of his mind to end in his eyes ... in his brown, soft as velvet eyes, his bewildered eyes. Panic brought sanity with it. His hand went to his mouth, to his pocket, to his car keys. He took two steps towards his wife, but the barrel followed him.

  ‘My nemesis,’ he said. ‘My bloody nemesis.’

  Ellie’s mouth was open, ugly. ‘Put that gun down, Annie.’

  Ann looked at her mother, saw the bloody pool staining the floor. A flowing river of gore, black red beneath the bright white light. Too much blood.

  Blood. Liza. Blood. Liza.

  And the world stilled. It slipped out of focus, slowed down to stop.

  Open mouths screamed soundless words, while she stared at pictures. Pictures from Grimm’s fairytales. Too harsh. Too cruel.

  Close your eyes Annie Blue Dress. You don’t want to look any more.

  Ben slumped against the wall. Bronwyn, shivering, wet curls slicked around her face. Bessy. Bill.

  No card game in the lounge room tonight, Annie Blue Dress.

  The policeman.

  Quick march. Quick march, through the door

  Drag a tiny boy from a river of gore,

  And place it down on the kitchen floor.

  The policeman can’t make it breathe. Bessy can’t make it breathe. What a clever baby, it even defies Jack Burton. No Johnny here to force life into this one, so it stays dead. Clever baby. Give it a pat on the back.

  The policeman breaks the gun, removes the cartridges while he listens to the lies, believes the lies. He saw Bessy’s bull in the fowl yard. He dodged Bessy’s bull.

  ‘She got it to shoot the bloody bull. It’s your fault. Keep the mongrel thing on your side of the river.’

  Cast off blame, Jack. Give it to another. Stay blameless, Jack Burton. You must stay blameless. Not your fault. You didn’t mean it. You never mean it. You always say you’re sorry.

  Benjie tries to place the blame where it belongs, but his jaw is broken. He can’t talk. Bob told him not to talk. He sits, two hands now hold his face together, while his eyes turn to the mute in her corner, near the old wireless that was also struck dumb by a fall. Ben’s eyes overflow as he tries to drag Dummy Burton back from that foggy, misty place where she is safe, that place where she went to before, where she wants to go again. Better there. Much better there.

  Hear no evil. Speak no evil. Just file it away,

  to polish up at leisure, use on another day.

  The gun is leaning against the wall. The cartridges are on the table. The policeman doesn’t know about this gun. It is a magic gun. Like Annie Blue Dress, it came from Narrawee.

  Everything bad came from Narrawee.

  Don’t think, Annie Blue Dress. Don’t think of that place.

  We waited, little Annie. We waited, eating apples. We kept saying, Aunty May will open the door. We waited until there was no light to hope in. Remember.

  Push me Johnny, push me high.

  I’m a bir
d and I can fly

  High up to the clear blue sky.

  I made Liza Burton –

  I made Liza Burton –

  I made Liza Burton –

  Hole in that piece of paper. Hole rubbed by a moistened finger. What did it rub away, little Annie? Lie? Cry? Sigh? Or was it Die? I made Liza Burton die. I made her die?

  No! No.

  I made her die? I remember the blood.

  Shush. Don’t think. Don’t think, Annie Blue Dress. Hush now. Be still.

  A face flew into semi-focus amid the mist clouding her brain. Branny’s face. Her fists were punching, pounding a passage through the fog, her mouth screaming words.

  ‘You wake up Annie. Tell them, Annie. Tell them. Don’t you go trying to pull your deaf and dumb act again. You wake up and talk to me.’

  Ann stared at the younger girl’s mouth. Remembered. Lipstick. David.

  Branny. Strong little Branny. Let me be safe, Branny. It’s safe here. I don’t want to know. I can’t live if I know.

  ‘Talk, Annie. Tell them what happened. Tell Mr Johnson that it’s lies.’ Bronwyn’s small fists, pounding Ann’s stomach, forced the air and one word out.

  ‘Yes.’ Ann’s voice was hoarse with tension, but free. ‘Yes. Lies. Everything he says. Lies.’

  Bob Johnson knew. He knew, but he did nothing. He patted Ann’s arm. ‘You get me some more towels, Annie. The ambulance will be here soon. They’ll look after your mum. She’s made of strong stuff. She’ll make it.’

  Ann looked from him to Bessy and Ellie, to the baby boy on the table. She walked to it, touched it, spoke to it. ‘I made you a beautiful dress for the christening, then I went to a party, and I killed you too,’ she said, and she walked from the room.

  The night was black as pitch, the road deserted. Distant headlights gave ample warning of a vehicle’s approach. She had time to hide. She was under the five-mile bridge when she heard the ambulance screaming towards Mallawindy, then she watched it scream back to Daree while she cowered with her bike in a water-filled ditch. She saw the police car cruise by twice, her only cover the tall dry grass, and from behind a tree, she gripped the handlebars while she watched Bessy’s truck slow, turn back, its spotlight scouring the sides of the road.

  She would have to be off the road before dawn. Go bush. Leave her bike and follow the river.

  She had her schoolbag, and her bankbook, her scissors and the midnight blue dress. She had her purse, and a battered golden syrup tin. She had her good shoes, and her old shoes. Her load wasn’t heavy.

  When the road was dark again, she mounted the bike and rode on.

  Maybe she’d make it. Dawn was only hours away now, but Daree was not too far ahead.

  novel lovers

  September 1984

  She knew what he wanted, what they all wanted. Slowly she slid the zip open, shrugging off her skirt and stepping away from it. The buttons on her prim blouse, slowly, tantalisingly undone, it slipped from her rounded shoulders, and as her heavy breasts sprang free of their restriction. She smiled knowingly, backing away as he reached eagerly for his prize.

  Mack was sweating with desire as he approached her, his mouth open, sucking air deep into aching lungs.

  She laughed at him, allowing her hands to slide seductively from her firm ripe breasts, down to her hips, stripping her hips and buttocks of their sheer covering, before kicking the flimsy panties to his feet.

  ‘Come to Mommy, baby boy,’ she crooned. ‘Come to Mommy.’ Her dark triangle tantalised with knowledge of the silken place it hid, her nipples were pink crumpled petals of a dusty rose. His mouth sought the twin flowers, and Mack sucked.

  THE END

  Malcolm Fletcher closed the novel with a snap then used it to flatten two flies making love on his kitchen table. Lust was barely a memory, but the novel had stirred places that hadn’t been stirred for years! He stood, took too-fast breaths, eased his trousers around the crutch, and eyed the cover picture as Eve might have eyed an overripe apple in the garden of Eden.

  An earthy beauty bared her left breast there, the name of the author emblazoned across it. Coll M Chef-Marlet, the letters read. The letters could as easily have spelt Malcolm Fletcher!

  He mouthed the name. ‘You black-hearted old sinner, Chef-Marlet,’ he said.

  In the Burton house, near hidden by overgrown shrubs, Bronwyn Burton had her nose buried in one of the hottest passages of an identical copy of the novel. She closed the book as Ben walked into the kitchen.

  ‘You shouldn’t be wasting your money on that smut, Bron.’

  ‘Everybody is reading it.’ Weak-kneed with second-hand desire, Bronwyn stood, tossing her long hair back; it was a sleek, rich brown. She was almost eighteen, old enough to read what she liked. And she liked Chef-Marlet – as did half of Australia. ‘Anyhow, where’s your patriotism? At least he’s Australian.’

  Ben picked up the book, looked at the photograph of a moon-faced youthful author. ‘He looks as if he should be writing obscure history, not this smut,’ he said. He tossed the book back to the table and watched his sister light a cigarette. She held it as her father held a cigarette, and her mouth, when she sucked on the weed, was shaped like her father’s. The final mixture of Burton and Vevers, Bronwyn had her mother’s green eyes and her father’s nose, her mother’s build and her father’s temper.

  ‘You shouldn’t be wasting money on cigarettes, either,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t. You know me, Ben. Money well spent is never wasted.’

  Ben saved two-thirds of his wage each week. He didn’t understand this sister. She’d developed young, and had half the town louts chasing her since she turned thirteen. She was average height, and not a lot like Annie, except her hands. Every time he looked at Bron’s hands, he thought of Annie’s.

  He had his mother’s hands, or his grandfather’s, as Ellie always said. He had his grandfather’s build too, five foot six when he stopped growing. He’d expected to make five-ten at least. Ben still lived at home when Jack was out of town, but he was in residence at the moment, so Ben slept on a camp stretcher in a junk room behind Bert Norris’s shop. He hadn’t spoken to his father since the night Annie left, and he’d sworn to Ellie that he never would again.

  On that New Year’s Eve, Ellie had lost the last of her fight, her baby, and her womb. She’d lost a lot of blood too. It was months before she was back to her old self. Jack had remained sober for twelve months after. He’d even taken a job with the stock agent. Two years passed before Jack got back to his old self, but he rarely hit Ellie, or so she said, and when he did, it was usually brought on by outside influences, Ellie stressed. If people didn’t stir him up, everything was fine. They had a good relationship. Both Ben and Bronwyn stayed out of his way now.

  It was almost six. Jack always ate at six. Ben helped himself to some boiled pumpkin and potatoes and a bit of stew. He helped himself to a few eggs for breakfast, a couple of slices of bread and a thick wedge of cake. He was packing it carefully into his Esky as Ellie came from the shower, hair brush in hand.

  ‘Got your dinner, love?’

  ‘Yes thanks, Mum.’

  Head down, Ellie stood before the stove, brushing the yard of wet silk. Ben watched her for minutes, then his gaze wandered the room, resting a moment on the portrait of Liza, almost forgotten, as Linda Alice had been forgotten, as Annie would never be forgotten.

  They’d found her bike near Daree, but no-one had sighted her there. She’d disappeared as completely as Johnny.

  Never much good at putting his thoughts into words, always nervous and shy in his youth, Ben attempted to get through life unnoticed. Annie was the one he’d spoken his dreams to. Far easier to sign a dream than to give it voice. Her leaving created a gap in his life that eight years, eighty years, would do little to fill.

  ‘Sunshine shower, fall from sky,’ he signed the words. He could still do it.

  ‘That’s what Annie used to call Mum’s hair,’ Bronwyn said.

  ‘
What love?’ Ellie tossed back the wet mane and began plaiting it.

  ‘Nothing, Mum. I’d better get going, I suppose, before my dinner gets cold. Anything you need from the shops tomorrow?’

  ‘Just the bread, love. Oh, and you can get me some baking powder, and a couple of light globes. And get onto Jim Bourke about that fence too. We can claim it on our tax, and you really haven’t got the time.’

  Bronwyn walked with her brother to his ute. He still had the old HR, but he’d had the rust cut out a couple of years back, and a new paint job, so it still looked good, and got him as far as he wanted to go, which wasn’t far. ‘You can give me a lift up the town, Ben.’

  ‘You don’t want to go hanging around there all night.’

  ‘I don’t want to go hanging around here all night, either. He likes her hair when it’s been shampooed. The old bed springs will be rattling tonight.’

  ‘Bron!’ Ben slid into the ute, swung the passenger door open.

  ‘Do you think much about Annie these days, Ben?’

  ‘She’ll come back one day.’

  ‘Like you always reckoned Johnny would. How old would he be now?’

  ‘Thirty-one. Three years older than me. He was eight when Annie was born.’

  ‘I don’t even remember him. I must have been at least two when he left. What was he like? Who was he like?’

  ‘You’ve seen photos. He was the image of Dad.’

  ‘Like as in, wild? Quiet?’

  ‘Oh, he wasn’t anything like him in ways.’ Ben scratched at the scar at his hairline. ‘Mum wanted him to be a priest.’

  ‘That would have made Jack happy.’

  ‘It did. He called him Jesus. They hated each other.’ Ben started the motor, backed the ute around and headed slowly up the track. ‘Johnny and old Fletch’s son were good mates. They were together the day they found the bones down Dead Man’s Lane.’