by Joy Dettman
Guilt is the brick wall that halts all progress, Annie Blue Dress.
She sighed too deeply, then she lied. She gave him absolution. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Dad. It wasn’t your fault.’ Torchlight in the distance, scanning the land. Another was coming from Bessy’s side. Ann took a sliding step backwards as the first large raindrops hit. Thunder shook the world and the earth trembled beneath her feet. Black night. Black as the cellar. Only the glow of his cigarette. Intermittent orange glow. Highlighting, distorting his features, as he sucked the last from the weed before the rain killed it.
Our kaleidoscope man, Annie Blue Dress.
May screaming out her years of hate, cursing her husband’s name. Sam tossing the lantern, trying to hide in the dark. Flickering light. Flickering madness. Too much fear. And screaming. Screaming that slowly died.
Uncle Sam was a very bad man, and a very bad man was he.
He cried for his May, but he couldn’t get away, and he died with a 1,2,3.
I promise, Daddy, I won’t ever say a word. I’m your good girl, Daddy.
He loved me best that day, Annie Blue Dress. Liza was dead, so he had to love me best in all the world. He held me, and he kissed me, and he cried. He knew he could trust me. Take him home. Let him go to May, wear his rose-tinted glasses. He’s a good man when he’s Sam. Let him be good, Annie Blue Dress.
‘Annie, for Christ’s sake answer me. I’m getting wet.’
‘Ann. We’re all here.’ David’s voice, strange against the pounding rain.
‘Burton. Burton.’ Her old knight in his tarnished armour was waddling in to do battle for his child, his comic-book silhouette looming large against the headlights of the Ford, where raindrops slanted down.
They were all here for her, for the one they knew as her reality. Not one for him. No-one ever for Jack Burton. Except May. Except little Annie.
Take him home, Annie Blue Dress. The storm is moving on.
‘Go. Run along the river. Go, Dad, and never, never, never come back here.’
His hand, that smelt of soap and cigarette, touched her shoulder. Timid thing. Timid touch. She touched the hand with her own, just briefly, then she stepped away from it. ‘Jack Burton has to die tonight. He took his gun, and ran into the forest. He was struck by lightning. He drowned, Dad. He’s got to be dead.’
‘It’s too late, you loyal little fool,’ he said. ‘It’s too bloody late now.’
‘Only if we let it be too late. Run, Dad. Go out to Dead Man’s Lane and I’ll find you there. I promise you. I promise I’ll get you home to Narrawee. Run, Dad. Run. Run. Run.’
epilogue
Mallawindy: Named for a man who cut his canoe from the giant river gums and buried his dead in the sand dunes. Mallawindy: Too far north of Melbourne, too far west of Sydney, too far off the beaten track to ever grow.
The river cut its course around the town, attempting to bypass it as it hurried on to the shade of the gum forests, hurried on to where the air was thick with bees, and the scent of eucalypt and honey strong. Only there it slowed its pace and took the time to glance behind.
Did it turn to find a simple pathway through this land, or was it an obstreperous thing in the dreamtime, fighting the will of the gods who charted its course? Old motives were long forgotten, for once having turned to face the gold dust of a newly risen day, the river lost its way, drunk on eucalypt and silence.
It weaved, it coiled, it narrowed between tall clay banks. It turned back on itself, but a river cannot dally long, time sent it on its way, leaving in its wake a broken silver ring, that wed it forever to Mallawindy.
Mallawindy: A small scar on the sunburnt skin of the land.
At the edge of town, set well back from the highway, a mud brick farmhouse stood taller than its neighbours. Its chimney leaned to the west, as if paying homage to the setting sun, and the sun given its due, did not shine too hard upon the painted roof. But on the last Sunday in September, bedlam reigned beneath it. A tiny infant’s wail. And laughter. Too much laughter, and too many voices.
They had all come home for Ellie’s birthday, and the house too small, carpets too new, rooms built to suit another era, did not suit them. It wasn’t home. Not quite. They didn’t feel at home with the ornate ceilings and the curtained windows, the papered walls and the odour of flowering vines.
In the late afternoon they wandered down to the clumsy construction they called Ben’s Bridge, and like a herd of cows, strung out at milking time, they ambled across it in twos and threes.
‘It’s quite safe, loves. I use it twice a day,’ Ellie said.
‘Not too safe if we meet Bessy’s bull in the middle,’ Bronwyn replied, and laughter welled, echoed.
The river carried sound.
Ann crossed over slowly, carefully, the new child held close to her breast – too close. David walked behind her, watching each step she took across the uneven planks. He’d wanted to drive around. Be safe. Stay safe. Perhaps one day, this fear will pass, he thought, but it was only a fleeting thought.
Ben brought up the rear with Malcolm, who waddled over rough ground, his walking stick prodding. Shy Ben, quiet Ben. He hadn’t rowed his boat to China, but he had seen Brisbane before he saw a newspaper – and if Brisbane was an example of the seething world outside of Mallawindy, then others could have it.
The film he’d bought for his trip north, was a thirty-six. He’d only taken twenty-eight, and twelve of those today. Eight of the tiny boy who had Annie’s eyes, and her mop of black hair. Benjamin John, already named, Little Ben.
Camera at the ready, Ben waited until the Burtons were spread across his bridge, then before Malcolm could place his considerable weight upon it, he called to them.
‘Okay. Hold it there.’ He lined them up in his viewfinder, calling instructions, and they did as they were bid; they posed for Ben.
The priest who came home, had packed his vows and black suit away. Johnny Burton, the man with the shared secret, his hands, big hands, capable hands, were coloured by hard labour and red soil. One rested on Ellie’s shoulder.
‘In him I have the best of Jack,’ Ellie told the mourners at the memorial service. ‘Jack will never be dead while Johnny is alive,’ she said to May, who came alone that day.
She and Sam had moved permanently back to Narrawee, but poor Sam was down with the flu. He had sent his condolences and a fine card. ‘He’s at peace at last, Ellie. Be happy for him. Love as always, Samuel.’
‘Move in, Bron. I’m cutting half of you off,’ Ben yelled, and Bronwyn leaned to the side, waving her cigarette as she blew a perfect smoke ring at the photographer.
‘Pull the blanket back a bit, Annie. I can’t see his face.’
Ann loosened her grasp, released a tiny hand, a tiny face, as she flashed a smile she saved for the camera. Ben would never see that she feared his bridge, and wanted her small burden safe on the other side. Hadn’t she helped him plant his trees? Hadn’t she helped him watch them grow?
And the camera clicked.
It trapped the Burtons, trapped the river, trapped the forest, and the day.
Such a fine day. The sun was setting behind them, the old Burton house waiting, eager for their noise to come and fill the empty rooms.
Oh, Lord, such peace in this land tonight.