When the Lyrebird Calls

by Kim Kane

  ‘Reggie? Is that a boy?’

  ‘He was one of the babies.’ Gert put the photo back and shut the drawer and the conversation. She opened another drawer and lifted a fleecy bodice from a neatly folded pile of them. It had yellowed slightly but it smelt soapy.

  ‘This is not very hygienic, is it?’ said Madeleine.

  Gert smiled. ‘We’ll give it a squirt with vinegar. It will be fine.’

  ‘I’ll smell like a jar of gherkins!’

  ‘There are another three here. She probably doesn’t even wear them all. Well, not around Daddy anyway.’

  Gert laughed and then stopped short. The girls heard the clack clack of shoes coming up the stairs. Gert tucked the bodice into her pinafore and the girls fled the room, slamming the door behind them. They tore back along the hallway, eyes focused on the thin carpet runner, and banged straight into Aunt Hen heading towards her bedroom.

  ‘Oops!’ Aunt Hen put her arms out to steady Gert, and then she looked at both girls and smiled.

  ‘Back already?’ asked Madeleine.

  ‘There is nothing like a walk to calm one down when one can do nothing to calm the views of others.’ Aunt Hen winked as she pulled off her gloves.

  ‘My mum feels the same way about running – she says it’s better than any antidepressant.’

  Aunt Hen squinted at her. ‘You New South Welsh are quite a different breed altogether, aren’t you? Are you having fun during your stay with us?’

  ‘Oh, we are, thank you, Hen Pen,’ Gert answered for Madeleine.

  ‘Are you all right, dear?’ Aunt Hen put the back of one hand to Gert’s brow. Her nails were square and low, and the pads on her fingers were dirty, almost black. ‘You look peaky.’

  Gert stepped back. ‘Fine, fine, thank you, but Nanny’s expecting us in the nursery, so we’d best be off.’ She turned and ran. Madeleine shrugged and followed.

  ‘Gertie, you know how Nanny feels about running inside. Try not to get into any more trouble – I’m not sure I can bear it.’

  ‘Stop worrying, Aunt Hen!’

  ‘Not worrying, just Hen-pecking.’

  The girls giggled as they ran up the stairs towards the nursery. At the top of the staircase, Gert stopped and looked at Madeleine, her face suddenly serious. ‘You’d better be careful of your words, even around Aunt Hen, Madeleine.’ Then she smiled again. ‘That whole episode was too close for comfort.’

  ‘No,’ said Madeleine, taking the soft bodice from Gert’s pinafore pocket and pulling at her own pinafore’s ties. ‘This is too close for comfort! That was worth it. Well, this bit was.’ Madeleine waved the bodice like a surrender flag. ‘Quick, let’s find somewhere I can get changed.’

  Madeleine spent a much comfier afternoon playing ‘dogs’ with Imo in the playhouse while Gert and Charlie watched on and laughed. Even the rope around Madeleine’s neck that Imo used for her collar and the constant need to bark and bounce on all fours was nothing compared to the pain of Bea’s bodice.

  As dusk hit, Nanny called the girls inside to prepare for nursery tea and bed. Mr Williamson must have heard them tumble in through the front door, because he came out of the study, sweeping Imo up and over his shoulder.

  ‘Put me down, put me down, put me down, Daddeeeeee,’ shrilled Imo. ‘I’ll tell Elfriede on you.’ She kicked out, only just missing the stuffed lyrebird in the bell jar on the hall table.

  ‘Daddy!’ Charlie ran up to Mr Williamson and punched him on the arm.

  ‘Ahh!’ He pretended to double over. ‘You’re getting quite a strong hook, Charlie.’

  ‘That’s Master Charles Williamson to you,’ teased Charlie, holding up her muscles like Popeye.

  ‘If the federation should ever fail, at least we shall have you to protect us,’ said Mr Williamson, smiling.

  ‘Upstairs, girls.’ Nanny bossed her way into the circle, throwing an apologetic look Mr Williamson’s way. ‘And what on earth have you done with Elfriede, Miss Imogen?’ she asked. ‘I haven’t seen her all day.’

  Mr Williamson tickled Imo’s tummy. She squealed.

  ‘Elfriede wasn’t with us,’ said Charlie. ‘She decided to sit with Mummy, and that was hours ago.’

  Colour had climbed up Mr Williamson’s neck. He put Imo down and pulled on his watch chain, studying his fob watch and tucking it into his bottom pocket.

  ‘Well then, I must be getting back to it.’ He patted Imo loosely on the head.

  ‘Can’t we play, Daddy? Please?’

  ‘Hmm? Not now, darling. It’s far too late. Perhaps tomorrow.’ He looked around, searching, as if he had left something – his shoes at the front door, perhaps, although he was hardly the sort of man to do that – then dipped his head and retreated to his study. A flatness settled over the party, as dull and airless as Boxing Day.

  ‘He forgot to say goodnight,’ whined Imo.

  ‘Well, he’s under considerable strain,’ said Nanny. ‘Upstairs, you lot.’

  Later that night, however, Mr Williamson returned, bursting unexpectedly into the nursery and ruffling Charlie’s hair. Nanny had been reading the girls a story called Struwwelpeter, the girls arranged about her feet on the rug, the light of the fire flickering around the room and the wallpaper making it feel extra snug, like the room was tucked up in a quilt.

  ‘I knew you’d come back! You forgot to say goodnight!’ Imo smiled.

  Mr Williamson kissed her on the head and then raised his arms like a preacher in a pulpit. ‘Excuse me, Nanny, children . . . I thought, if it’s agreeable to Elfriede, we might have a picnic tomorrow. The weather should be fine again, and besides, it is my great pleasure to announce that we have something to celebrate.’ He paused, and his dimples twinkled. ‘I have just had word that Her Majesty shall sign the assent to federation. The bill has passed both houses; it’s going ahead!’

  ‘Bravo!’ Gert sat right up on her knees and clapped. Charlie and Imo looked at her and joined in. Madeleine smiled. How amazing to be here in this very moment.

  Even Nanny was moved to smile. ‘That’s jolly good news, Mr Williamson. Congratulations.’

  ‘I thought we would take the motor and a carriage,’ said Mr Williamson.

  ‘May I drive with you, Daddy, may I?’

  Mr Williamson looked at Gert. ‘Yes, Gertrude, you may. The guests shall travel with me in the motor, and as Madeleine is your guest, you may accompany us. The others will follow in the carriage.’

  ‘Yippeeeeee!’ Gert sat straight up on her knees until she looked a little taller.

  It was funny, thought Madeleine, how little people required to feel better about themselves. Gert needed to be singled out. She needed to feel special. Madeleine was pleased Mr Williamson had done that.

  The next morning, the sky was deep blue and everything had the feeling of crisp napkins.

  The car – which was the black and shiny apparatus Madeleine had earlier taken for a carriage in the garage – didn’t, to her credit, really look anything like a car at all; it was high like a carriage, only without the pincer bit for connecting a horse.

  It had a metal frame, big red wheels with red spokes (a bit like a BMX), and two black seats facing each other. Mr Williamson and Elfriede’s forward-facing seat was covered in dimpled leather, like a doctor’s couch, while Madeleine, Gert and Imo’s seat opposite was harder and more basic. If this were a modern car, thought Madeleine, the three girls would be pressed backwards against the windscreen like a toy on the dashboard – it felt very strange.

  In front of Mr Williamson’s seat was a funny steering column that looked like a nutcracker, and to his side was a horn so comically big it was like something a clown might squeeze.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Mr Williamson asked Elfriede.

  ‘Ooh, yes!’ said Elfriede. ‘This is tremendous fun. Is it French?’

  ‘It is,’ said Mr Williamson. ‘De Dion-Bouton voiturette.’ He’d said the last part in French that was so bad even Madeleine could tell.

 
; ‘Mon Dieu – like my costume!’ Elfriede winked at the girls across the picnic basket. She was wearing a long tan coat over her dress, with a wide-brimmed straw hat on her head. She looked like a movie star.

  Mrs Williamson had headed off earlier in the carriage with Nanny, Anna, Bea and Charlie, to help set up.

  The ride was bumpy and chaotic. Madeleine felt every single pothole through her bottom. They whipped along the rutted country road lined with tall thin gums that pressed in on them. Dust flew up into Madeleine’s eyes and mouth.

  ‘I can spy the river,’ called Gert after half an hour. There ahead of them was a small clearing. Madeleine could see the water all treacly through the scrub. It was a clear tea colour, the knotted roots of the trees that lined it visible beneath the surface. The banks were lined with gritty sand and bleached stones.

  Anna had set up a table under some thick gum trees, their trunks as saggy as elephant hide. She had covered the table with a large white cloth, which flapped in the breeze. Some pretty white flowers with yellow centres had been placed in a little glass bowl in the centre.

  ‘Are the flowers really necessary, Anna?’ Madeleine heard Nanny ask as they approached the site. ‘Imogen will only spill them and spoil luncheon.’

  ‘Actually I picked those, Nanny. I do like fresh flowers at the table. Even outside,’ retorted Mrs Williamson. She sat in a chair in the sun facing the river, wearing a flat floral hat, trying to sew and hold a parasol at the same time.

  Nanny squashed a little blood spider that was crawling onto the white cloth. ‘Very jolly the flowers are, too, Mrs Williamson. I shall of course supervise Miss Imogen at the table.’ She nodded at Anna, who was squatted by a picnic basket in the shade, rearranging a plate of cold joints. ‘I am relieved to see Anna has at least had the good sense to keep the picnic in the shade this time.’

  Nanny flicked some imaginary dirt off the front of her grey tunic and stalked down towards the river. Anna rewrapped a brown leg of lamb and bit her lip.

  Charlie was down at the shore poking about in the shallows with a net, her boots off. She was trying to hold her skirts and the net, and they kept getting tangled. Her hem was wet and silty. Millie was next to her, fur stuck to her legs, making her little doggy legs look skinny and bent.

  Seeing Charlie like that, fully dressed in the water, was like seeing kids in sunproof skivvies splashing at Bondi Beach, thought Madeleine. It might not have been sun smart, but as a kid there had been nothing better than swimming in just undies. There was a delicious freedom to be found at the beach, which had to do with the feeling of brine on your skin and sand in the Barbecue Shapes – not prim picnics at tables with linen. Homesickness flooded Madeleine like nausea.

  To distract herself, Madeleine turned her attention to Mr Williamson, who was playing ‘horsies’ with Imo, crouched over and carting her backwards and forwards along the water’s edge. Imo was kicking his sides with invisible spurs and cracking his back with a strip of limp weed. He reminded Madeleine of her own father when she was little. Every time Mr Williamson brayed, he looked back at Elfriede and Bea sitting on a sweet patch of green grass by the riverbed.

  ‘Thomas? Elfriede? Would you care for some lemonade?’ Mrs Williamson called.

  ‘Lemonade? As well as cake? Isn’t that butter upon bacon,’ said Mr Williamson, cracking his dimples.

  Elfriede laughed from the bank of the river, where she’d abandoned Bea to play catch with a ball. ‘What a charming saying.’ She threw the ball high in the air and then caught it.

  ‘Thomas is very fond of idioms,’ said Mrs Williamson. ‘Would you care for some lemonade, Elfriede? Anna prepared it this morning, and it’s bitter and delicious.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ called Elfriede.

  ‘Oh,’ said Mrs Williamson, putting down her glass. ‘Well, what about a fort competition? Anyone care to join me? I do make a rather magnificent pebble fort.’ She stood up and walked to the edge of the river and then back. ‘There are some wonderful pebbles.’ She was puffing a little. It took her breath a while to settle. ‘Fort, Thomas?’

  ‘I’d rather a game of ball,’ said Mr Williamson. Imo slid down his back as he stood, and Elfriede threw a ball straight and firm at his chest. Mr Williamson caught it and tossed it to Gert, who missed. Millie ran after it, swiped it and took it to Charlie.

  Elfriede laughed and ran after Charlie. She was, despite her cigarettes, a natural athlete, with an eye for a ball; she could probably read a game. She had pinned up her skirt to give her more freedom. Madeleine could see her arms, long and lean and muscular, and her strong, bony ankles. Gert stood to join in. Charlie scooped up the ball and threw it to Elfriede, who threw it to Gert. Gert smiled and held out her hands hopefully, but the ball flew past them, a good half metre away. Gert, sadly, was hopeless.

  ‘I’ve never built a fort, but I love building sandcastles,’ said Madeleine to Mrs Williamson.

  But Mrs Williamson had retreated up the bank to a little chair placed precisely on a stretch of bright grass near the table, where she was sipping from a cloudy glass. She had brought her sitting room to the river, it seemed. She looked regal, presiding over the party. There were dark oblongs of sweat on the cotton under the arms of her frock.

  ‘Come on, Madeleine,’ called Gert. ‘Do join in.’

  Gert threw the ball wide to her, but Madeleine caught it; it made a satisfying thwack in her hands.

  ‘You’ve done this before,’ called Elfriede.

  There was something deeply satiating about the weight and curve of a ball in her palm. It was only as she held the ball that Madeleine realised how much she had missed it. She threw it back to Elfriede, then ran down closer to the game. Wearing Hen’s looser bodice, she could actually run, and if she breathed in she could feel a lovely gap between her clothes and her skin.

  Mr Williamson had grabbed a cricket bat. They set up a game, and even Bea joined in. Madeleine hit and fielded, yelled and hooted. The wooden bat was a relic, but it felt wonderful to be up and active again; to sweat, to feel her body move, to feel how strong it was.

  Bea left the game and went up to sit with her mother. Charlie was back with Millie on the muddy river banks, poking about with a stick. Millie yapped at any fish that darted too near.

  ‘Charlie, not too far, the current can be strong,’ said Mrs Williamson. Charlie ignored her.

  Elfriede threw the ball to Gert and it nipped the tips of her fingers and then rolled off towards the water. Gert scrambled after it. Charlie picked up the ball and threw it hard, straight and fast to her father.

  ‘Come back and play, Master Charles.’

  ‘Thomas, don’t encourage her,’ said Mrs Williamson in a warning voice.

  ‘Where did you learn to bat, Madeleine?’ asked Mr Williamson. ‘We could do with you on our team!’

  ‘I have an older brother.’

  Mr Williamson handed the bat to Charlie. ‘You could play as well as Madeleine one day, with a little concentration.’

  ‘Sadly, Daddy, I am the only boy in the family. There is therefore nobody to pester Master Charles for a game, and so not much point in learning how. Anyway, I like fishing, too.’

  ‘Come on, Madeleine,’ said Gert. ‘Let’s get some lemonade. Mummy looks so alone.’

  Mrs Williamson had not moved, but she was no longer watching the cricket.

  ‘Oh, don’t take Madeleine from us, she’s super.’ Elfriede’s eyes were bright from the exertion. ‘I haven’t done this much exercise since my last bike race.’

  ‘I love bikes!’ said Madeleine.

  ‘I’m thirsty.’ Gert pulled Madeleine up the bank. ‘Don’t draw attention to yourself,’ she whispered. ‘There are a few ladies’ team, but no schoolgirl plays like that.’ She stopped and punched Madeleine. ‘Although I am quite proud.’

  The girls made a beeline for the pitcher of lemonade, which had thin discs of lemon bobbing in it.

  ‘You are a marvellous sportswoman, Madeleine,’ Mrs Williamson said as th
ey approached. ‘I’m tired just looking at you. Do you ride?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Gert, pouring two full glasses, which slopped onto the cloth. She looked up to apologise, but Mrs Williamson was staring down the bank to Mr Williamson, who had Imo on his back again. Elfriede was throwing the ball and Mr Williamson was moving Imo so she could catch it. He looked so gangly that it was funny. Like a marionette.

  Elfriede had taken off her shoes and was fielding the ball in bare feet; those long, bony feet.

  ‘Isn’t it fun having Elfriede here, Mummy?’ said Gert. ‘She has jollied things up a bit.’

  ‘There’s nothing quite like family,’ said Mrs Williamson brightly. ‘What about your family, Madeleine? Do you miss them?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Madeleine. ‘Of course, you’ve been so kind, but I do miss them. Mum . . . mmy, especially.’ Madeleine’s voice cracked and she turned away, her eyes full.

  There was a squeal. Mr Williamson was dangling Imo above the river, upside down. Her skirts had flopped down over her head, and she was kicking and squawking. Under her hands, the river ran on, lapping its banks as it passed.

  ‘That’s enough, Thomas. That’s enough. She can’t swim,’ said Mrs Williamson crossly.

  ‘Oh, Bella,’ said Elfriede, running up the bank. ‘It’s terribly amusing. She’s the sweetest child.’ Elfriede fiddled with a hook and eye on her skirt and the hem dropped. She sat beside her cousin and smiled back at Mr Williamson and Imo, laughing. ‘What a beautiful family you have.’

  Mrs Williamson tucked a piece of silver hair behind her ear. Her skin was still smooth and creamy, marked only by smile lines around her mouth, but her hair was as streaky as bacon. She had taken out a small hoop over which a piece of cotton was stretched and was sewing tiny stitches.

  ‘The light here is perfect,’ she said. ‘I’m using white on white and it’s horribly difficult. My eyes really aren’t what they were.’ Her thick fingers were remarkably agile despite being weighed down by rings. ‘Do you do needlework, Elfriede?’ she asked crisply.

  ‘No, but even if I did, I could never do stitches as tiny as those.’ Elfriede hugged her cousin. ‘You are clever, Bella.’