by Kim Kane
Madeleine’s feet were cold and damp in the grass. She opened the box to pull out her Docs. She couldn’t understand why the girl kept going on about the season. It was clearly winter.
‘What on earth have you got those boots for?’ The girl looked appalled. ‘Did you pilfer them from one of the servants? What sort of strange shoe-filching curio are you?’ The girl’s currant-eyes leapfrogged from Madeleine’s feet to her woolly skirt and then up to her turtleneck. As they skipped, they narrowed. She blinked. ‘You’re not from here, are you?’
Madeleine wobbled on one leg as she tied a shoelace. ‘No. I’m down from Sydney.’
‘New South Wales? How exciting. I’ve only been there once, but Daddy travels often. My grandparents have a property there.’
Madeleine tied up her second boot. ‘Are you from the country? I thought you were from England. Your accent is weir—’ Madeleine swallowed. ‘Unusual’.
She’d just been trying to make polite conversation, but the girl’s face fired to a hivey red. ‘You are impertinent. My mother is actually from Germany, if you must know – and your own accent is frightful, only I was far too decent to comment.’
Madeleine looked at the girl’s clothes. The country girls she knew all wore jodhpurs or grubby jeans, flannel shirts and caps. None of them wore pinafores or old-fashioned skirts. Maybe this girl was Amish, or from some other religion, a cult even – one of those weirdo sects that made the women bake bread, grow their hair long and marry old-man cousins.
Whatever she was, this girl was definitely a capital-F freak – and a bossy one at that. Madeleine shrugged. ‘Well, I’m sorry your sister’s shoes ended up in Mum Crum’s cupboard, but I should get going,’ she said, doing her best to sound class-captainy. ‘Can you point me in the direction of Reginald Road?’
‘Reginald Road? I’m certain there’s no road of that name here.’
‘Well, what about the entrance to Lyrebird Muse?’
‘That’s my home, and you are here, as I have already noted, trespassing.’
Madeleine looked around. Up the hill, the muddy lake still curved in a bow, but the houses and roads below had gone – instead, square-bottomed sheep with black faces and thick woolly legs grazed in a paddock. The air was so still that she could hear the silence. Madeleine sat with a thud. Sticks crackled under her bottom. She felt woozy and her mouth was thick. ‘Where . . . where have the houses gone? Where am I?’
‘Why, you’re in the Colony of Victoria, of course. Are you mad? Have you taken ill?’ The girl stepped back and slapped both hands over her mouth and nose.
Madeleine rubbed the soft skin between her eyes. ‘It’s all right,’ she said weakly. ‘I don’t think it’s catching.’
The girl took a further step back. ‘You can’t always be sure – it could be measles, scarlet fever, influenza, plague. My mother is forever putting together baskets for the servants’ families, and there are dozens of rats here. Not as horrid as in New South Wales, though, where Hen Pen says men are being paid to bring them in dead.’
‘Servants’ families?’ Madeleine whispered. ‘Plague?’ Her voice caught in her throat. Her heart was beating so strongly that she was quite sure it could be seen thumping against her turtleneck. ‘W . . . w . . . when am I? What year is it? Please?’
The girl took a third step back. ‘You are ill. It’s nineteen hundred. Only six months to go until we’re a proper, stamped federation. Daddy’s been working ever so hard on it.’
Light pressed in on Madeleine from every direction. Her breath constricted. She could feel sweat oozing from her pores and taste bile bubbling in her throat. Everything was bleached and lined with ragged lace. With each breath she took, the ham-faced girl moved in and then out of her vision, until the girl dissolved into the pale background, her apron and boots spinning like a windmill.
Madeleine fell – back, back, until that vast, lacy whiteness swallowed her whole.
Madeleine woke to find a face blooming so close to her own that its edges were fuzzy. It was a fine, angular face, dusty with dirt, with very blue eyes, which seemed lit from behind. A straw hat was propped on the back of a thatch of yellow hair running in a series of short tufts and cowlicks, beaded with grass seeds. The face scowled and its owner, a girl who looked around eight, removed a small leather notebook no thicker than a box of matches from her boot. She tapped her yellow pencil twice on a clean sheet of paper and said, ‘Where did you find the enemy lurking, Gert?’
The ham-faced girl loomed suddenly into view, a handkerchief bound across her face in a way that was more cowboy than surgical mask; then she retreated until all Madeleine could see was the herringbone lines in the fabric of the girl’s skirts. Everything smelt of new grass and washed cotton.
‘I found her just here,’ said the ham-faced girl – Gert. ‘She was wandering about in Bea’s dress slippers – and not terribly much else.’
‘Oh God, I’m still here,’ said Madeleine.
‘Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain!’ said Gert. ‘You’re running a dreadful fever, and if one thing’s certain, we’re going to require Him on our side.’ She struggled out of her pinafore and sent it billowing up then brought it down to settle across Madeleine like a bedsheet. She then untangled her hat and crunched it under Madeleine’s head. The hat was still warm, which made the gesture uncomfortably intimate. ‘There, that should do for now.’
‘What has she done to these slippers?’ the other girl exclaimed, examining the pretty shoes. ‘They look like they’ve been weed on.’ She sniffed at one of the slippers and scrunched up her nose. ‘And they reek like the dead aunts.’
‘Charlie,’ snapped Gert, ‘you know you’re not to rummage through the dead aunts’ possessions. If Nanny catches you wearing their specs again, she’ll lock you under the stairs for so long you’ll actually need spectacles to see.’
The girl called Charlie was still studying the shoes. ‘Apart from being warped and yellow, there are no other peculiar markings. Have you managed to obtain any vital information from the enemy? Where is she from?’
‘She’s from New South Wales, although why she’s in such a state of undress I’m not sure.’
Charlie picked up Madeleine’s turtleneck with a stick. She swung it by its label, holding it out from her body as if it were toxic. Madeleine felt dizzy. She couldn’t remember taking it off. This whole experience was like watching clothes in a dryer – just when she thought she spotted one of her socks, it would be swallowed by something vast and foreign, like a beach towel.
Gert put her hands on her hips. ‘Charlie, don’t touch anything. You know what Daddy said about the bubonic plague being all over Sydney at the moment. Over a hundred deaths! Do something rash and we could all end up in quarantine.’
‘But I must check thoroughly for clues.’
Gert didn’t respond. They all watched the turtleneck swing above them, lynched.
Madeleine closed her eyes. This place, the clothes, the girls – sisters. They rocked about her head, just out of reach.
Her eyes snapped open again.
‘I’ve dreamt about you girls!’ she exclaimed. ‘I can’t really remember it anymore, it’s blurry – but I’m fairly certain there was a . . . yes . . . there was a doll. In a garden. Do you know it? The doll with unblinking eyes? The one that says Mama Mama like it’s possessed?’
The two girls stared at Madeleine as if she’d spoken in tongues. Then Charlie shook her head and turned her attention back to the turtleneck. It dangled, helpless. Three gold buttons ran down one shoulder – coin buttons, featuring deer antlers and edelweiss. Charlie brought the garment closer to read the label: Handgestrickt in Deutschland.
‘Deutschland, Gert. Hand-knitted in Deutschland.’
‘Deutschland?’ Gert looked confused.
‘Deutsches Reich. Germany,’ Charlie spat right out the side of her mouth, as if telling the punchline to a dirty joke. ‘Ger-many.’
Gert looked shocked. ‘Oh my!’ She took Charlie by the arm and
marched her to the other side of the saplings, her face knuckle-white. She didn’t quite march her far enough to be out of hearing, though. ‘Do you think she’s our cousin?’ she hissed.
Charlie held a pencil to her cheek. ‘Well, Mummy’s cousin is German. And she’s been staying in New South Wales.’
Gert looked over at Madeleine and smiled. And nodded. And smiled. ‘But she doesn’t have any luggage. She wouldn’t arrive clutching Bea’s soiled slippers with little else – and she telegrammed to say that she would be here on Tuesday.’ ‘Perhaps she’s early? The coaches aren’t always reliable, and it would explain her accent.’
Charlie smiled like she’d found twenty dollars on the footpath and returned to Madeleine. ‘Do you mind if I ask some questions?’ she whispered. ‘I’ve never met a real German before, you see. I’m one-quarter German, but I’d like to be properly German when I’m grown up. I just require some tips. Do all Germans wear those funny tight jerseys? Do they all dress, well, a little like nuns?’ Charlie flipped back the cover on her notebook like a journalist. She cocked her head to one side and looked at Madeleine as fixedly as a dog eyeing a chop on a barbecue.
Madeleine pulled her turtleneck back on and shut her eyes. She had studied one year of German at school, and her mother’s first boyfriend had been a German exchange student called Horst. It was not a lot to go on. Thankfully, Madeleine was saved from needing to decide whether or not she should pose as a nineteenth-century non-German-speaking German because Gert had begun rooting about in Madeleine’s shoebox and had discovered the piece of paper with the signatures.
When Gert turned to Madeleine, her eyebrows were hitched up into question marks, and her voice was as sharp as mustard. ‘You’re not Mummy’s cousin, are you?’
Madeleine looked straight at Gert. ‘No. I’m not, and I never said I was. I’m Madeleine Barnett. I know you both think I’m a thief, but honestly, I was returning the shoes. They hurt. They’re not my thing at all – I spend half my life playing cricket, so I’m always in runners, and you’ve seen the boots I brought with me.’ Madeleine motioned at her Docs.
‘And this? Where did you get this?’ Gert flapped the page of signatures in Madeleine’s face.
‘I found it in the cupboard with the shoes. I don’t even know what that is, and I certainly don’t want it.’
‘It’s a page of signatures.’
‘Even I worked that out!’
‘They’re signatures for one of my aunt’s petitions. Charlie spied more of them in her room, didn’t you, Charlie? She’s like that – forever sneaking about. Our father says she’s our own little blackfella, always on her tummy in the long grass.’
Charlie nodded.
Madeleine kept waiting for one of them – for both of them – to be shocked by Gert’s racism. Our own little blackfella? Seriously? But neither said anything. Apparently they found wearing Doc Martins or your grandmother’s hand-me-downs far more scandalous.
‘I’ve come across pages of signatures like these a number of times,’ said Charlie. ‘Aunt Hen usually stores them in a trunk under her bed.’
Madeleine looked from one girl to the other. ‘My grandmother just handed the page to me and told me to bring it here. Pinky promise.’
Gert’s voice softened. ‘Your grandmother?’ She looked at Charlie. ‘Is she a friend of Aunt Hen’s, then?’
‘Aunt Hen’s a spinster,’ said Charlie to Madeleine in a whisper.
‘Charlie, that’s unfair.’ Gert looked cross. Then to Madeleine, she said: ‘Does your grandmother really know our aunt?’
‘Quite possibly; I don’t know. She’s sort of wacky, my grandmother, and she does know heaps of people.’
‘Wacky!’ Charlie giggled. ‘That’s a funny word.’
Gert knelt down on the grass next to Madeleine. ‘Aunt Hen is currently on her constitutional, but we’ll make enquiries as soon as she returns. I wish you’d shown me this earlier – it would have avoided a tremendous amount of fuss.’ She went to pat Madeleine’s forehead and stopped. ‘I’m sorry you’re unwell. Mummy and Daddy are in town. Don’t worry, though, because Nanny will know exactly what to do. She’s at her best in a crisis.’
Madeleine looked up at the girl’s soft face and felt exceptionally grateful. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you, very much.’
‘Charlie, don’t look so vexed,’ said Gert. ‘If you leave your mouth that wide open you’ll catch flies. Please fetch Nanny now.’
‘But Nanny’s taken Imo for a walk,’ protested Charlie.
Gert sighed. ‘Well . . . Percy then.’
‘Percy Hops? You know as well as I do that neither Mummy nor Nanny will approve of that.’
‘Charlie, we need to get Madeleine up into bed; then she can talk to Nanny and Aunt Hen when they return. We’ll require Percy’s strength.’
Charlie pulled up her sleeves and flexed her muscles. ‘As the strongman of the family, I should probably attempt to carry Madeleine myself.’
‘That would be even less appropriate! We still don’t know if Madeleine’s contagious, so I really don’t think we should go near her. Percy can do it. Go and find him – now!’
‘Percy Hops, Percy Hops,’ Charlie chanted.
‘Well, look what the cat’s dragged in.’
Charlie laughed.
Madeleine closed her eyes tighter and pretended to sleep. A kind voice, deep and measured, spoke above her.
‘She fainted in the garden,’ said Charlie.
‘Percy, could you help us get Madeleine up to the house?’ said Gert. ‘Nanny’s out.’
Two arms scooped Madeleine up. She could smell sweat and horses and tobacco. The man’s breathing was rhythmic as he carried her snug against his chest up the hill. Gert and Charlie whispered at his heels.
‘There you go, miss.’
A chair creaked as Madeleine was gently lowered into it. The room, with its heavy liver-coloured curtains, was cold. So was the chair. Madeleine looked up into big brown eyes. With his dark skin and his curly hair, Percy was a handsome Aboriginal man.
‘Oh, thank you. Thanks very much,’ Madeleine whispered. She smiled the shy, polite smile she gave to her school principal.
‘Percy, hat! You know Mummy’s rules,’ said Gert. Charlie seemed to have vanished.
Percy didn’t look at Gert, but he pulled his hat down from his head.
Of course Madeleine had seen Aboriginal people before on telly, playing footy or on the news, and she’d seen re-runs of Cathy Freeman flickering across the finish line at the Olympics – a green streak with a golden medal and a grin to fit the nation’s pride. But Madeleine had never spoken to an Aboriginal person before, not up close, not in her normal life. And while nothing about this was normal, it dawned on Madeleine just how weird that was. It was even weirder that it had never occurred to her before today.
Percy stood holding his dented hat. He looked unsure of what to do next. ‘Shall I ask Anna to send word to Nanny, Miss Gertrude?’
‘We can manage,’ said Gert primly. ‘You can get back to the stables.’
Madeleine stared at him. ‘Are you from here? Has your family lived here for, well, forever?’ she asked, interested and earnest. ‘Are they Wurundjeri?’
Percy’s eyes flicked from Madeleine to Gert and then back to Madeleine. He narrowed them and shook his head. ‘I’m from Coranderrk. Grew up on the station there before they—’ He shrugged, then turned and left.
‘Thanks, Percy,’ Madeleine called after him.
Gert shook her head. ‘Do sit here while I try to find Nanny. I’ll send Anna in.’
Madeleine watched the ribbon in the back of Gert’s hair swing as she left the room, hating her prim step, her erect back.
Madeleine looked around the room and shivered. There was a small fire hissing in the grate, but the room was huge and felt moist as well as cold. There was a great deal of dark, dumpy furniture squatting on an enormous rug. Even the wallpaper was decorated, in slushy swirls all gilded and ric
h. It was like sitting in a fruitcake – a fruitcake jam-packed with curly vases and pictures of wild horses and stormy seas hung in golden frames.
The door creaked and a girl wearing a black dress under a long, white apron with a heart-shaped bodice arrived, carrying a tray. She looked like someone delivering room service at a big hotel. ‘Are you quite comfortable? Would you care for a little tea?’
Madeleine blinked. ‘Tea would be great as long as it’s milky, thanks. I’m freezing!’
The girl smiled.
‘What’s your name?’ asked Madeleine.
‘Anna, miss,’ said the girl. She was one of those people who was quite pretty until she opened her mouth, and then her teeth were so big and so wildly crowded that she had to curl her lips over them when she talked. Anna blushed and turned to poke the fire. It flared red and billowed out heat.
‘Do you fancy a late luncheon, too? The family has dined, but I could bring you something if you’d care for it.’
Madeleine’s stomach rumbled. She was starving. ‘What would the something be?’
Anna smiled around her teeth. ‘Whatever takes your fancy!’ She tucked a wisp of hair up into her bun.
Madeleine had been brought up in a household where people did their own chores – where cleaning ladies were considered unnecessary and exploitative (although the family budget couldn’t have stretched to one anyway). That was her family’s values, their moral code – as indelible as the little tomato tattoo on Mum Crum’s ankle. It was clear that her own moral code had been written in chalk. ‘Biscuits and tea would be delicious, thank you.’
Anna brought the tea in on a tray. The pot and the little cup were as pink as fairy floss. Anna poured the tea – it was dark and strong.
‘Milk, miss?’
‘Yes, please!’
Madeleine watched as milk spiralled white within her cup. The cup was so delicate that it was like cradling the ribs of a small bird, warm in her hands.
Now that Anna was up close, Madeleine could really look at her. Despite the pockmarks in the skin on her face, Anna was surprisingly young. ‘How old are you?’ asked Madeleine.