by Kim Kane
They heard a crunch of gravel. ‘Is that another lyrebird playing tricks,’ said Madeleine, ‘or is someone coming?’
Bea laughed. ‘Daddy will shoot them all now.’
‘What? Shoot them really?’ asked Madeleine. ‘Aren’t they native?’
‘No,’ said Bea. ‘Not in this area. They’re fashionable. Daddy heard about them and thought they sounded fun. So he bought some. And they are fun, if a little deceitful. They liked it here, too – they’ve thrived. Even Millie doesn’t bother them.’
A native bird that wasn’t actually native. Madeleine was still mulling this over when a shadow above her blocked out the sun.
‘Good afternoon, girls.’ Aunt Hen stood above her, holding a large box wrapped in brown paper. ‘This was left in the hall for you.’
Charlie and Imo had abandoned the pony trap and run over. ‘For which one of us? Who is it addressed to?’ asked Charlie.
‘To whom is it addressed. All of you. The Misses Beatrice, Gertrude, Charlotte and Imogen Williamson.’
Aunt Hen handed the parcel to Gert. Millie bounced up on her hind legs, trying to have a look.
‘It’s written in her beautiful copperplate,’ said Bea, and she was right – it was beautiful writing, even managing to make the word Gertrude look quite elegant.
‘But who is it from?’ asked Imo, jumping about like Millie.
‘Take it back to the house,’ said Bea imperiously.
‘Oh, come, Bea, don’t be such a party pooper!’ said Aunt Hen and winked. ‘Imo, you’ll no doubt have to open the package to reveal the sender, although, like Bea, I am well able to guess who it might be. Everybody deals with life and its limitations in their own particular way, girls. I only hope you’ll choose your own paths wisely.’
Madeleine watched Aunt Hen stride away, her steps short and nippy. She was a quick walker, Aunt Hen – a quick walker, a quick talker and a quick thinker.
Gert ripped the package open, to reveal a box and a note. ‘It’s from her – Elfriede,’ she said, as spitty as a cat, handing the package too fast to Bea, who passed it straight back. There was something of the hot potato about that package.
In the end, Bea put the present on her lap, leant back in her chair and sighed. ‘I’m not sure I have the strength to deal with this just yet.’
‘I do!’ said Charlie. ‘Master Charles loves presents. What does the letter say?’
‘Just one sentence. Girls, I am so very sorry. As if a childish present like this can ever make amends.’ Bea’s face had reddened.
‘Has Elfriede really gone?’ asked Imo.
‘I hope so,’ said Charlie. ‘Now come on, Bea, pass me the box. Regardless of what she was like, it is exciting to get our very own package . . . I’d like to see what it contains.’
Bea stood up and handed the box to Charlie. The girls bunched tightly around it in a circle – all except Madeleine, who flipped over on the grass to lie on her back. The sun was warm on her neck and tummy. Sun! Man, she did miss Sydney’s sun. The gong rang out across the lawns, calling the staff to tea.
Madeleine heard the rustle of packaging, the bleat of a doll – Mama, Mama – and a thud as Charlie dropped the box to the ground at their feet in surprise.
‘But she’s just so beautiful,’ said Imo.
‘Her costume really is quite elegant,’ said Bea resentfully.
‘Is that real ermine on her bonnet?’ asked Charlie, sighing.
‘Er-min, not er-meen,’ corrected Bea. ‘But yes, I suppose it is.’
There was a long silence then, eventually punctured by a sniffling sound.
‘Gert,’ said Bea softly. ‘There’s no need to cry.’
Madeleine opened her eyes. She watched as Gert bent to retrieve the doll in one hand and the box it had come out of in the other.
‘Damn foreign cousins,’ Gert yelled and threw the box hard across the lawn. It spun all the way into some white azaleas. The girls watched as the flowers swallowed it whole.
Then Gert stood up, running her finger over the doll’s skirt. ‘It’s silk velvet.’
Mama. Mama, said the doll.
‘Oh, stop that wailing, will you?’
Gert held the doll up and looked it straight in the eye. Then she handed it to Imo.
‘Imo, you might as well have her. She is beautiful. Cold and hard the whole way through, but definitely beautiful. Anyway, that’s just the way she was made.’
‘Just for me? Really?’ Imo squeaked. Gert nodded.
‘That’s a grand idea,’ said Bea.
‘I don’t want her.’ Charlie did a cartwheel.
Gert laughed out loud. She looked up into the sky and yelled, ‘DAMN ELFRIEDE VON FRÜMPENBERG; DAMN EVERYTHING.’
Bea, Charlie and Imo watched on, mouths slack. Then they started to giggle.
Gert laughed again. She spun across the grass with her arms out, spinning and spinning, spinning like a top, petticoats blurring.
Madeleine closed her eyes. The muscles in her shoulder were still sore from the lake, and she was sleepy, so very sleepy. Imo was whistling Percy’s song again. And it was funny, Madeleine could have sworn she heard Elfriede’s high-pitched, musical laugh coming from somewhere high above the tree canopy . . .
‘Beat you to the playhouse,’ yelled Gert. ‘Madeleine?’
Madeleine heard the girls take off across the lawn. She imagined the streak of flying hats, skirts and boots.
‘Madeleine?’
‘Hmmm.’ Madeleine was so sleepy she could barely muster the energy to answer.
‘Madeleine?’
‘I’m fine, thanks. I’ve seen the playhouse plenty of times,’ she giggled from under her hat. She felt too thick and lazy to move. ‘And do you know what? I know you love the playhouse and dolls – well, most of them – but me? I’m too old for dolls. There, I said it.’
‘Too old for dolls? Possibly. But you’re certainly too young to be snoozing in parks all by yourself in the middle of winter, young lady. Even in the country.’
Madeleine sat up. Mum Crum stood above her, frowning, a deep N formed between her eyebrows.
‘Mum Crum, Mum Crum. Ohmigod!’ Madeleine yelled.
She leapt up and spun, taking in her surroundings. The fence was back: there it was in the distance, and the barbecue, and the old metal slide. She took a breath. There was the long line of tall soldier-oaks – and Madeleine could smell hay, lanolin and rust.
‘Oh, thank goodness. I thought I’d never try your seven-root-vegetable juice again.’
Madeleine threw her arms around her bony little grandmother. Mum Crum gave Madeleine a quick, sharp hug. It was glorious.
‘Mum Cruuuum!’
‘Calm down, darling,’ said Mum Crum, linking her arm through Madeleine’s. ‘You only went to the Muse. I know that new volunteer is unbearable, but I didn’t expect you to be this excited. I got less of a welcome at the airport.’
Mum Crum looked at Madeleine and the skin around her eyes crinkled. ‘What have you got on? Are they having a costume day? Sovereign Hill does that sometimes!’
‘I didn’t really have a choice,’ said Madeleine.
‘Rubbish,’ Mum Crum snapped. ‘There is always a choice, but fancy dress’ – she pushed Madeleine’s hair off her forehead – ‘is a fun one.’
Madeleine smiled at her grandmother. ‘Do you know what, Mum Crum? There might always be a choice, but sometimes the consequences can be seriously unfair.’
‘Oh Moo, I don’t mind what choices you make, darling, but I would prefer it if you’d keep me informed. If I lost you, your mother would never forgive me. Next time, I’ll let you take your phone. Didn’t I learn that the hard way!’
She gave Madeleine another hug, and Madeleine let her. There really was no better feeling in the entire world than when someone was happy to see you.
Mum Crum lay on the floor of Madeleine’s room pulling her leg over her head while Madeleine packed her bags. ‘I love yoga, Maddy Moo,’ she declared. ‘That
’s the key to long-lasting youth – flexibility.’
The droopy tattoo on her ankle stretched and sank as Mum Crum moved her legs.
‘What does the tattoo mean, Mum Crum?’
Her grandmother laughed. ‘Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I chose a tomato because it has no meaning. I simply wanted to do something outlandish, a reckless celebration, and it was pretty outrageous. But don’t you even think about getting one.’
‘What did your parents say?’
‘My mother had listened in on a phone call I’d made to a friend of mine, so it came as no surprise to her.’ Mum Crum pressed her palms together. ‘I was a rebel – just like your mum. The only thing she could do to get up my nose was drop out of uni and get married, and so she did. It just about killed me.’
Madeleine stopped packing and threw a pair of socks at her grandmother. She was going back to Sydney tomorrow.
‘Ow!’ Mum Crum rubbed her head in mock pain. ‘I’ll show you a photo of Mummy, if you’d like.’
Mum Crum disappeared for a few minutes, then returned carrying two old silver photo frames. She handed the first one over to Madeleine to inspect.
The picture showed a couple sitting on a beach. The man was in a short-sleeved shirt; he had a square, dimpled chin and he was sucking on a pipe. The woman had long, shiny limbs and was wearing navy bathers. She looked strong and smiley.
‘Mummy was an excellent swimmer,’ said Mum Crum. ‘She must have been about fifty there. She looks pretty astounding for somebody who’d had six children. I was the last child, and the only girl.’
‘Six children!’ Madeleine frowned. ‘There’s something sort of familiar about her.’
‘Well, she is my mother,’ said Mum Crum with a laugh. ‘I looked quite like her when I was younger. Look, here she is as a girl.’
Mum Crum sat down next to Madeleine so that they could inspect the second photograph together. It was a picture of four girls, and although they were teenagers, there was absolutely no doubt who they were: the Williamson sisters.
Mum Crum pointed to Charlie in the photo. ‘You see? That’s Mummy there.’
Madeleine choked. ‘That’s your mother? Charlie is your mum?’
Mum Crum nodded. ‘Charlotte, really, but they called her Charlie, and great fun she was, too. Now there’s a connection – you know they lived at the Muse for a while.’
‘What?’
‘Oh Maddie, I’ve told you that at least a thousand times . . . They sold most of the property when Mummy was a girl – subdivided the land, kept a few smaller blocks like this one as investments, and the family moved back to Melbourne. This area was terribly social in summer but completely isolated in winter. Coincidentally, Mummy met Daddy up here years later, at a cricket match.’
‘Charlie married?’
‘Why yes,’ said Mum Crum, looking surprised at Madeleine’s reaction.
‘A boy?’
‘Well, she married a man. I just showed you Daddy. Mummy was just like you, Maddy Moo – very sporty. She ended up playing cricket for Victoria.’
‘You could do that back then, as a girl? That’s amazing!’
‘I didn’t know you were so interested in family history.’ Mum Crum wiped her finger across the frame of the old photo.
‘Neither did I, really,’ Madeleine admitted, ‘but it’s a bit more interesting than family present. Nobody in my family does anything.’
‘Your mum’s studying for her infectious diseases exams. That’s interesting. If people keep refusing to vaccinate their kids we’re going to start—’
‘Losing babies.’ Madeleine ached as she thought about Mrs Williamson and her outstretched hands reaching for Baby Reggie at the séance.
‘Exactly. And as for me, well, if I didn’t need to get this place done up for the next tenant then you’d never have sanded my old cupboard and you’d never have found those shoes! And doesn’t it look wonderful!’
Madeleine looked at the cupboard. It was as brawny as a bouncer at a bank. She walked over to it, opened the door and sniffed: mothballs. The secret compartment on the right-hand side was still open.
Madeleine ran her fingers left along the shelf. ‘The left drawer doesn’t go all the way to the end either, but there’s no finger groove here like there is on the right.’ She looked back at Mum Crum. ‘Do you have a knife? There could easily be a compartment under this side too.’
‘Do you think so?’ exclaimed Mum Crum. ‘Let’s see if we can jimmy it!’
Mum Crum retrieved a butter knife from the kitchen, and Madeleine angled the metal blade down the side of the board. She levered it upwards. The board creaked and then popped open.
‘It does!’ Madeleine plunged her hand down into the second secret compartment and pulled out a cream cardboard box.
‘It’s not as fancy as the last one,’ said Mum Crum. ‘Perhaps not worth showing to the Muse this time.’
Madeleine pulled off the lid. ‘That’s fortunate. The last one took me much further than I’d anticipated.’
Inside the box, laid out on a square of blue felt, was a silver locket. The lid of the locket was slightly dented, and the initials G.M.W. were etched on the front.
Madeleine picked it up. The locket was smooth and opened like a book; inside were spots for two photos. From the left-hand disc, Aunt Hen stared out, her bun lopsided and her chin tilted, intelligent and fierce. Tucked behind the glass of the other frame was a tight curl of honey-coloured hair, bound in faded aqua thread.
Madeleine ran her fingers over the initials again. ‘Gertrude Mary Williamson,’ she said. ‘They called her Gert.’
‘They did! She was my aunt. What on earth is that doing in there? I was very sad when she died. We were close.’
Died. Madeleine started.
‘Not until she was in her eighties,’ said Mum Crum gently, noting her reaction. ‘But that’s old age for you. We all go at some stage.’
Mum Crum took the locket and hung it around Madeleine’s neck. ‘You can have it, darling. It looks pretty, and I’m hardly going to wear it.’
‘Really?’ Madeleine smiled and opened the locket again.
‘I wonder whose hair that is.’ Mum Crum ran a finger over the little curl under the glass. ‘Mummy’s, perhaps.’ She held the locket up to Madeleine’s face. ‘Snap! It’s exactly your colour!’
Madeleine smiled and snibbed the locket shut. Her hands were quivering. ‘Thank you. I’d love to keep it.’
‘Good,’ said Mum Crum, smiling back at her. ‘Old Aunt Gert was the illegitimate daughter of the suffragist Henrietta Williamson. She was adopted by Henrietta’s older brother, Sir Thomas Williamson – my grandfather. He played some role in federation – not as big a role as he liked to think, Mummy always said, but he did go on to become a judge.’
‘Gert was illegitimate?’ Madeleine couldn’t quite get her mouth around the words.
‘Don’t look so surprised, darling,’ laughed Mum Crum. ‘People had babies outside marriage back then too, you know. It was just not spoken of . . . not spoken of at all. The families tended to absorb the children.’
‘So . . . who was Gert’s father?’ Madeleine swallowed.
‘They’re not certain. Latere semper patere, quod latuit diu.’
‘What? Come on, Mum Crum. Don’t go all Latin on me now.’
‘Leave in concealment what has long been concealed. Should be on the family coat of arms. Henrietta was very young – no more than eighteen. Gert lived with Granddaddy’s family but never really fitted in. She read law at Oxford later, like her mum.’
‘Aunt Hen? I mean . . . Henrietta?’
‘That’s right. After she studied, Aunt Gert returned here and campaigned for illegitimate children. Don’t blame the child stuff, which is completely taken for granted now, but it was pretty revolutionary at the time. It was her life’s work. She used all her legal contacts for lobbying – some of those men became quite powerful in the end. I don’t think she was ever a girl of her own time,
but she was a dab hand on the property market.’
‘Is that where you get it from?’
‘I’m just continuing the family tradition.’ Mum Crum laughed. ‘It was Aunt Gert who left all that property to me. She never married. It’s been important for me to give back, Moo. Property has become so expensive, and even rent is impossible for many people these days; that’s why I set up the trust.’ She knocked on the walls of the little house. ‘These houses were never mine to start with. It feels fair.’
‘Did Gert know who her mum was?’
‘Of course,’ said Mum Crum. ‘But not until she was an adult. Her mother never knew she knew, mind. It must have been horrible for Henrietta, always resented, always judged.’
Madeleine’s head was whirling. Everything suddenly made sense. So that was why Aunt Hen had stuck around; why she had always been hovering on the edges: Thomas, don’t make me, not from the girls. Thomas, please.
How awful, thought Madeleine, contemplating the enormity of Aunt Hen’s loss: present, but only ever an observer; watching the disfavour bestowed upon her own child, but powerless to do anything about it.
Mum Crum pulled the felt out of the cardboard box. ‘Maddy, look!’ She drew out a tiny black leather case that had been hidden beneath the felt. Inside the case nestled a thin ring, made of white gold, with two locked hands across its top. Each hand had a tiny ring on one of its fingers, one a little emerald chip and the other a small amethyst.
‘Purple and green – the colours of emancipation. It’s a suffrage ring!’ said Mum Crum. ‘I bet it belonged to Henrietta.’
Madeleine slipped the ring onto her index finger. ‘If it did, she didn’t wear it in nineteen hundred.’
‘How could you possibly know that, darling?’ asked Mum Crum. ‘Anyway, I don’t think they had the suffrage colours until later than that.’
‘Really?’
‘Different leagues used different colours. These ones came from England. White for purity in public as well as private life; purple for dignity and self-respect; and green for hope and new life. Old Aunt Gert had a poster about it in her kitchen.’