When the Lyrebird Calls

by Kim Kane

  ‘Again?’ Gert’s voice sounded desperate. ‘She seemed all right yesterday. We had tea.’

  Nanny smiled her clipped smile. ‘It’s all right, Miss Gertrude. It’s just her nerves. She’ll be bright again in no time. She requires a little rest.’

  ‘We’ll take Mummy a tray then – Madeleine and me. I hate to think of her in there all alone.’

  Nanny nodded. ‘Have Cook include the bottle of Eno’s Fruit Salts on the tray as well. It does seem to assist with these ailments.’

  When the girls went downstairs and explained their request to Cook, she smiled and said, ‘I’ll put some of my cat’s tongues on there. If anything will pull your ma out of a spell, it’s some buttery cat’s tongues.’ She pulled a tin out onto a marble slab.

  Gert sniffed appreciatively. ‘We’ll collect a nosegay from the kitchen garden, too.’

  ‘Do flowers help?’ asked Madeleine, stifling the urge to laugh at the word nosegay.

  ‘No,’ said Gert sadly.

  ‘Jumping on her might? That always gets my dad out of bed.’

  Gert shrugged. ‘If she doesn’t come down tomorrow, we can try it.’

  Cook finished preparing the tray. ‘There’s the cat’s tongues. I’ve dozens! Some for the church fair, and some for your father and his guests, but there’s always more. Come back and fetch them after your breakfast.’

  ‘Thank you!’ Gert turned to Madeleine as she picked up the tray. ‘Everybody is always so kind when this happens with Mummy.’

  ‘Does it happen often?’ asked Madeleine.

  Gert pinched her lips together and nodded.

  The girls carried the tray between them, walking carefully up the stairs to the second storey. Four closed doors came off the main hall.

  ‘Shhh. This way.’ Gert gestured at one of the doors. It was shut, no light coming from underneath it. The girls headed towards it, walking on the soft carpet that ran down the centre of the hallway, rather than on the wooden floorboards.

  ‘Whose rooms are the other three?’ whispered Madeleine.

  ‘Bea’s and a guest room. And that’s Daddy’s room there.’

  ‘I thought you said your mum was in this room, though?’ said Madeleine, confused.

  ‘Yes,’ said Gert. ‘Mummy’s room is here. Opposite Daddy’s.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Madeleine.

  ‘Mummy?’ Gert knocked. There was no answer. The tray tipped slightly, and Madeleine heard tea slosh about in the silver pot.

  ‘It’s me, Gert. I’m with Madeleine.’

  Silence.

  Gert handed the tray to Madeleine and held her finger up. Shhhhhh.

  ‘Mummy?’ Gert pushed open the door. Inside, the room was dark, the curtains drawn like a cinema before the ads started. It smelt as musty as baked beans. The bedclothes were heaped together, and Mrs Williamson’s big figure was lumped in with them, like a pile of dirty washing.

  Gert took the tray and lowered it onto the bedside table. ‘It’s tea for you, Mummy. With fruit salts and some violets from the garden. We’ll leave it here.’

  Mrs Williamson didn’t respond, and the girls left the room in a clotted silence.

  After their own breakfast, Madeleine and Gert headed outside to try to escape the heavy atmosphere in the house. They found Imo sitting on the verandah in her coat and hat, whistling Percy’s song. ‘Toow wooooo.’

  ‘Can’t you whistle anything else?’ snapped Gert. ‘Percy’s gone.’

  Imo whistled his song louder.

  ‘What are you doing out here, Imo?’ asked Madeleine, trying to change the subject.

  ‘Waiting for the carriages,’ said Imo. ‘And keeping out of the way.’

  A series of carriages came rattling down the drive only minutes later. Inside them were men in hats and high-collared suits. They were all craning their necks to look over their shoulders, back towards the gate.

  ‘What are they looking at?’ asked Madeleine.

  Nanny came out of the house. ‘Come on, Miss Imogen, we’ll go down to the post office for a walk. I’m hopeful we’ll collect Miss Charlotte along the way. I could not find her anywhere in—’

  Nanny let out an ‘Oomph’ as Mr Williamson ran out the door and stumbled into her. His coat jacket flapped out behind him like an eagle’s wings as he ran, down the steps and onto the drive, towards the approaching coaches . . . and past them, on towards the front gate.

  ‘Look!’ Gert pointed.

  Madeleine looked up. The white federation flag, with its Union Jack in the corner and its blue cross and stars, flew boldly from one of the flagpoles by the gate. On the flagpole next to it, however – the one from which the Union Jack usually flew – Hen Pen’s suffrage flag cracked in the breeze. The female soldiers on the flag jiggled madly, propelled by the breeze, their pen-swords jabbing.

  Gert looked at Madeleine. Madeleine looked at Gert.

  ‘Oh, my.’ Nanny drew in a quick, hard breath.

  Mr Williamson had reached the flagpole and was pulling at the rope that levered the flag up and down. He was so angry that he kept slipping.

  Anna and Hen Pen ran through the front door and down towards the flagpole. The rest of the household followed suit – except for the men from the carriages, who stayed where they were on the front drive, staring.

  Aunt Hen reached Mr Williamson first. Madeleine could see the veins in his neck, thick and blue, as he spun around to face her.

  It was clear that Mr Williamson was trying to whisper, but his voice was fire and his hands shook.

  ‘I tolerate you and your modern ways. I tolerate your moral looseness, your depravity, but I will not tolerate this. This time, you have gone one step too far. Do you have any idea who those men are? They are from all over the country. At least two are arch conservatives. The Union Jack was a statement that after federation our loyalty to the mother country will not change, but instead, you had the gall to fly that flag. Are you deliberately provoking me?’

  ‘Thomas, I honestly did not—’

  ‘Answer me this, Henrietta. Is that your flag? Yes or no?’

  ‘But I didn’t put it . . . I would never—’

  ‘One simple question, Henrietta. Is this your flag?’ His voice had become dangerously quiet.

  The flag flapped at the bottom of the pole. The shields writhed, useless.

  Aunt Hen nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, Thomas, it is.’

  Mr Williamson grabbed at the flag and tore it from the flagpole. The fabric ripped. ‘I will not have you humiliate me. I will not have you and your ways sully these impressionable young ladies. Out of my house, Henrietta. Out of my house, now – just pack your bags and go.’

  ‘T . . . Thomas,’ stuttered Aunt Hen. ‘Where? Don’t be ridiculous. I have nowhere—’

  He held up the flag. ‘The Hens’ Convention? So you’re behind that, too. What a fool I was not to have picked up on your clever little pun. What a gullible fool. Well, I will not suffer you and your ideas anymore. Pack your bags and be gone, with your brochures and your journals and your sashes and your flags and your ghastly ideas. Get out of my sight and off my properties, and that includes Park Street.’

  Mr Williamson bundled the flag up in his arms and shoved it at Anna. ‘Burn it. I shall be inside in a minute.’

  ‘But Thomas, I . . .’

  ‘You deserve the gutter. Just go, Henrietta. Go.’

  ‘Thomas, don’t make me, not from the girls. Thomas, please.’

  Madeleine looked at her feet. It was galling to see Aunt Hen beg.

  ‘Go!’ Mr Williamson roared. It was a roar that was loud and primal and cut deep to Madeleine’s marrow. A roar that hurled itself out across the property and bounced off the very mountain above.

  ‘Nanny, take the girls up to the nursery, now.’

  But Nanny and the girls were rooted in the gravel.

  Aunt Hen turned then, and walked out the front gate. She left without a bag, without gloves, a hat or a coat. She put her head down, and she left without turning b
ack.

  Later that afternoon, after the men had torn off in their carriages and the servants had cleaned up the lunch dishes and the adults had all retreated to their rooms like blue-tongue lizards in the cage back at school, Madeleine and Gert sneaked into Hen’s room. It was cold and dark, but it always had been. Her little glasses were still on the dresser.

  Gert picked them up. ‘She won’t even be able to read.’ She shook her head and blinked. ‘She won’t really be in the gutter, will she?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Madeleine took the glasses from Gert and put them back on the dresser. ‘She can always go to Drummond Street. She keeps the key around her neck, remember? That house is awful, but it’s safe and dry.’

  Gert wiped at her eyes. ‘I’d forgotten about Drummond Street. But even she said that street wasn’t safe after dark.’

  Charlie poked her head out from under the bed. ‘She’s not back then?’ she asked timidly.

  ‘Charlie! Don’t be such a little stalker.’ Madeleine smiled and shook her head. It was hard to be cross with Charlie. ‘I don’t think she’s coming back, though. Not today, at least.’

  ‘I know you weren’t there, Charlie, but Daddy was beastly,’ said Gert. ‘I’ve never seen him so angry.’

  Charlie climbed out from under the bed. She beat the dust off her bottom and started to cry. ‘I’m going to see Daddy now.’

  ‘Charlie, I wouldn’t. He was horrid. Anyway, he’s not going to listen to you. He doesn’t listen to any of us.’

  Charlie took a deep breath. ‘I will face it. Face it like a man.’ She was gone in a flash. Madeleine and Gert followed.

  Downstairs, Charlie stood at the door to her father’s study. She had taken her brown dress from her knickers, and it was crumpled from the waist down. She looked tiny against the door, barely clearing the big brass doorhandle. She took a deep breath and knocked.

  ‘Daddy, it’s me. Charlie.’

  ‘Hmmph.’

  Charlie turned the doorknob.

  ‘I’m working,’ came Mr Williamson’s cross voice.

  ‘I know, Daddy, and I’m sorry, but this is important too.’ Charlie took a deep breath and walked into the room.

  Madeleine and Gert looked into the study from the doorway. Charlie stood before her father, who sat behind a big wooden desk topped in green leather. He was not alone – Elfriede sat in a burgundy armchair under a reading lamp, a small glass of sherry on a dark-red coffee table by her side.

  ‘Daddy, I took the flag. I found it in Hen’s room. I was spying, and I shouldn’t have been.’ Charlie bit her lip. Mr Williamson stopped working and put down his pen.

  ‘I saw the Roman soldiers and the word fight and I didn’t even read it properly. I mean, I guess I knew, but I didn’t want to cause that much trouble. I just thought it would be a bit of a tease. Like musical porridge, or pretending to wear knickerbockers. It was never Aunt Hen, Daddy, it was me, and I ought to be sent to the gutter instead.’

  Mr Williamson looked at her seriously. ‘You must not go through people’s personal effects, Charlie, but you’re not being sent away.’

  Charlie burst into tears. ‘I didn’t mean to cause this much strife. I didn’t mean for Hen to get into trouble.’

  ‘You, dear Charlie, did not cause the trouble. Your aunt got herself into this mess all by herself. You only drew to my attention what I had long suspected.’ He pulled at one sideburn.

  ‘But please, Daddy. Aunt Hen is part of our family. Please. We don’t even know where she is. There’s been no word from her for hours. It’s bitter outside. Mummy’s in a spell. We need Aunt Hen.’

  ‘It does seem a little much, Thomas,’ Elfriede interjected.

  Mr Williamson looked over at her and his eyes smoothed out.

  ‘These views are very fashionable in Europe at the moment, in certain circles at least, and nothing has come of them. I find the groups all too Protestant for my taste! It’s not such a threat, is it?’

  Mr Williamson put his head in his hands and shook it. ‘It was just . . . so awful. Did it have to happen while I had my colleagues here, for goodness sake?’

  Elfriede smiled. ‘Henrietta is family. Only you, Thomas, however, can decide.’ And then she winked.

  Mr Williamson was silent for a time. ‘Charlie,’ he said eventually, ‘stop crying – and tuck your skirt back up into your drawers. You just don’t look yourself unbreeched.’ He shook his head. ‘Hmm, I just know that I shall end up with nothing in the dresser but bluestockings.’

  ‘They are not the criminal class,’ said Elfriede. ‘There are worse things in life.’

  Mr Williamson checked his watch. ‘Off you go now, Charlie,’ he said. ‘And close the door behind you.’

  ‘Will you think about it, Daddy – about what Elfriede has said? Please?’

  ‘Master Charles, I promise to do just that.’

  The next morning, Madeleine, Gert, Charlie and Imo were playing croquet on the lawn with Nanny. Bea sat on the verandah, a diary low on her lap. She ran her fountain pen over and over her fingers. Elfriede was curled in a chair some distance from Bea reading a novel, a large hat partially obscuring her face like a crescent moon.

  ‘Do you want to join us, Bea?’ called Madeleine. She felt a little sorry for her. Bea was still so unknowable. Because she didn’t say much, it was hard to imagine how boring and lonely her life must be. There was no social media or phone, no school, no job; nothing to keep her in contact with anybody her own age. At least Madeleine had Gert.

  ‘No, thank you,’ Bea said in a constricted voice not like her usual smooth tone at all.

  ‘She’s still writing a list of prospective suitors; she’s been doing it in consultation with Elfriede,’ whispered Charlie. ‘It’s quite detailed – where she’d live with each fiancé, what his prospects are, whether Mummy knows his family. She’s even been practising her married-name signature for each beau. No gentlemen ever call on her, even if she is beautiful; Elfriede thinks she’d be much better off in London.’

  ‘One has three years to become betrothed after one’s season. Bea had better get on with it or she’ll end up a spinster like Aunt Hen,’ said Gert blithely, swinging her mallet. ‘Only without the brain. Such a shame.’

  ‘Miss Gertrude, that was cruel,’ said Nanny. ‘I will, however, raise it with your mother again. Miss Beatrice does require appropriate company, and your mother’s nerves really prevented Miss Beatrice from completing her season.’

  The day was unusually warm. Madeleine closed her eyes and turned her face to the sun, and when she opened them again everything looked metallic, like bright steel.

  Charlie was gone again. ‘She’s as quick as lightning,’ said Madeleine.

  ‘Charlie?’ Gert took aim at another ball. ‘Mummy says it’s easier to keep track of time at the seaside than it is to keep track of Charlie!’

  Madeleine laughed and looked around, only to find herself looking at Elfriede curiously instead, not for the first time that day. Elfriede had stood up for Hen Pen yesterday, when nobody else was going to. Madeleine hadn’t expected that.

  ‘Imo!’ Mr Williamson stepped outside and held out his arms.

  Imo flew along the grass and up onto the verandah, throwing herself at him. ‘Daddy!’

  Mr Williamson lifted her up and spun her around, laughing, her arms clasped tightly around his neck.

  ‘Do watch out for your father, Miss Imogen, dear – he’s not a toy,’ called Nanny.

  ‘It’s perfectly satisfactory, Nanny. Actually, I was going to take a walk – perhaps Imo would like to accompany me? I thought we could sail the toy boat at the lake. I have to head back into town tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s an excellent idea,’ said Nanny. ‘I shall fetch it now.’

  Nanny returned swiftly, a large wooden toy boat with a real fabric sail tucked under her arm.

  ‘There’s no need for you to join us, Nanny,’ said Mr Williamson.

  ‘Are you certain?’ Nanny looked puzzled.
>
  ‘Yes, she’s no trouble. Elfriede has offered to accompany us.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Nanny looked put out, but her place had been made quite clear by the only person in the house she could not bully down.

  ‘Well, I shall go and find Miss Charlotte, then.’ Nanny’s eyes went up to the top storey of the house. She’s no doubt causing some sort of trouble.’

  She handed the boat to Mr Williamson and turned back.

  Gert looked at Madeleine and shouted, ‘Daddy, Daddy, may we come too? I’d love to sail the boat.’

  Nanny paused mid-step to listen.

  ‘No, Gertrude, I think Nanny has something planned for you girls already. Nanny?’

  There was a faintly perceptible shift in the tilt of Nanny’s head. She turned to face the girls. ‘That’s right, Gertrude and Madeleine. I require help to hunt down Charlie, and then I thought we’d sort through the toys for the church fair. I know it’s dull, but we must select some to donate.’

  ‘Could we start with the toy boat?’ Gert dragged her boots through the grass hard enough to leave an earthy track behind her.

  Mr Williamson took off towards the lake before anyone could stop him. Elfriede put down her novel and took Imo’s hand, pulling Imo along until they had caught up with Mr Williamson.

  Nanny looked uncomfortable. ‘Mr Williamson? Mr Williamson!’ she called, stepping down off the verandah and onto the drive.

  Mr Williamson turned around.

  ‘She can’t swim yet.’

  He squinted. ‘Excuse me, Nanny?’

  ‘Miss Imogen can’t swim yet.’ Nanny was blushing.

  Mr Williamson’s face darkened like a rip, becoming still and murky. ‘I’m well aware of that, Nanny. There will be no swimming. We are simply going to float the boat.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Nanny quietly.

  Madeleine watched the trio’s retreating backs. Mr Williamson and Elfriede were a measured distance apart. Imo skipped just ahead of them, whistling Percy’s song. It really was a beautiful morning. The breeze was cool, the sun was still shining, and the sky was now clear and deep and blue. It felt like springtime.