‘She’s not too good today.’
She turns and starts back up the path, and he falls into step beside her. She is gazing around: back down the beach, along the dunes, up towards the village, up the hill. Her hands are shaking very slightly. She is thinner than he remembers. She holds herself taut.
‘Come in for lunch?’ she asks.
He nods. ‘For sure.’
She smiles and climbs back into her car. It is new; he can see gadgets, a CD player inside. He hauls himself into his ute and follows her.
The village is busy on the way through, people down for the mail off the boat, or bread and milk and a gossip. She drives slowly and he can see her face in her rear-vision mirror, still looking, swivelling her head this way and that. There is a service on up at the church, a couple of cars parked out the front and the priest standing on the steps with a few late-comers. One woman shades her eyes and watches them pass, a little cavalcade, a haze of golden dust rising from the limestone road as they make their way up the hill.
Her mother is waiting on the steps at the front of the house when they pull into the driveway. Laura looks fragile standing there, one hand on the railing, bent at the shoulders and hips.
‘Hannah!’ she calls as the girl emerges from the car.
The girl grins and clatters up to hug her. Darcy climbs out of his ute and stands at the bottom, watching them.
‘Thanks for meeting her,’ Laura calls down, and he moves forward.
‘Any time.’
‘God, it’s been too long since I was home,’ Hannah says.
‘Don’t you take the Lord’s name,’ Laura growls, and there is a pause before they all smile. He can see Hannah watching her mother, registering the stiffness, the waif-like thinness, the pallid skin. Her mind seems to be buzzing, her eyes are wide. Her mother, old. Her seeing it makes it strange, a sudden, kaleidoscopic twisting of memory, past and present.
Inside, lunch is laid out on the table: cold meat and salad, hard-boiled eggs. Darcy sits and lets them flutter and twitter around the kitchen. He is tired. It is good to have the girl home.
After, Hannah does the dishes. Darcy sits in an armchair in the family room and watches her through the open door. Her mother has fallen asleep, stiff and upright on the couch beside him. He can see Hannah dunking and rinsing the plates and bowls, humming to herself and poking her nose into the larder and the cupboards, remembering where to put things, working out what has moved. When she’s finished she comes to stand beside him, the tea towel still in her hand.
‘Cup of tea, Darce?’ she asks.
He glances over at her mother. ‘Come for a look around,’ he says. ‘We’ll have one when we get back.’
She nods and disappears towards her bedroom, tossing the tea towel on the kitchen bench as she passes. He stands and folds it, hangs it over the oven rail, then sits down again to pull his boots on. He can hear her upstairs. She reappears wearing an old pair of faded trousers, boots in hand.
‘Feels better,’ she says.
Outside, Darcy leads the way to the shed and she heads straight through to the horse yards. A sack of chaff has burst, he notices on the way past. There are mouse droppings mixed in with the golden spill around its base. Out by the yards, the two old horses snooze in the sunshine, a grey with a thick foreleg and an ancient black with a coat patchy and dust-dappled. Hannah walks over to meet them, pulling a carrot from her pocket as she goes. Darcy leans on a fence post and just watches her. The grey bobs his head and soft lips fumble over her palm as they bicker for their share of the treat. Hannah is whispering to the black horse, running a hand down his neck and over his shoulder, along his back, down one foreleg. The horse lips at Hannah’s pocket, neck arched and showing the clean lines of his muscle, despite the dust. Darcy strains to remember the horse’s fancy, stud-bred name, lost across the contraction of the years and Laura’s refusal to use it.
‘He’s in good nick, Darce!’ Hannah calls back to him.
‘Not bad for an old man,’ he says.
‘Ghost still lame?’ She wanders over to the grey.
‘Yep.’
She leaves the horses and comes back to him, sticks her head into the shed.
‘Place looks okay,’ she says. ‘Considering.’
Darcy raises an eyebrow, stretches a loose wire in the fence beneath him with one foot.
‘Considering.’
The wire rattles against its strainer and he pulls his foot back. She turns away.
‘Shall we go in?’ she calls over her shoulder.
He doesn’t answer but follows her back through the shed. She averts her gaze from the spilt chaff, he notices, instead eyeing the dusty saddles and fingering the leather.
‘Need a clean,’ she mutters.
‘Planning on riding, are you?’ he asks, and she grins.
‘Thought the old man might like it.’
She is humming again as they head back in for tea. Darcy feels his jaw tighten. An old tune, he knows it. It’s one her mother used to sing.
*
Father John stands in the sunshine on the steps of the church. Beside him, Mrs Lydia H. Keillor watches a small green car bounce along the limestone road, followed by a dusty ute. Harry? The hope is automatic, but both the cars keep going up the hill.
Father John turns to her. ‘Are we ready?’ he asks.
The dust from the cars drifts up in soft clouds to float away over the summer grass.
‘Yes.’ She smiles and turns to face him. ‘All set.’
‘Right,’ he says, and moves in towards the vestry.
Poor man, she thinks as she enters the church and takes her normal place in the second pew. It is a good group today. They always gather, coming up to Christmas. And it doesn’t hurt that they are worried for the grapes.
Behind her, the priest starts his walk down the aisle and they all turn in their seats to watch him. He moves slowly, gracefully. She loves these services, no fuss, no frills, just the group of them there and Father John, kind as always, guiding them. It comforts her, fills her with peace and confidence. Everything is alright, here in the church. There is nothing here to worry about – not the grapes, not the dinner, not the price of fat lambs. She straightens to face the altar as he moves past her. The sunshine from outside hits the gold cross so that beams of light are shattered across all four walls. The yellow of the wattle in the vase on the plinth picks up the colour and glows in the cool. She did the flowers herself – all natives this time. Roses would have been nicer, but there were none left. The priest announces the hymn. Mrs Keillor picks up her hymnbook and, lustily, she sings.
Outside, afterwards, the Women’s Auxiliary all agree that Father John gave a lovely sermon. He always does. Tea is served in the hall, and they stand around with cups and saucers primly balanced. Val Matthews has brought a Christmas fruitcake. It sits on a lace doily on a pretty china plate, and Mrs Keillor takes a second slice. She can never resist fruitcake. Neither can Harry, she thinks, and wishes again he was there.
‘Can’t think why he hasn’t come,’ she says. ‘He promised, this morning. He must have got caught up with something on the farm.’
‘Yes.’ Val nods politely. ‘Of course, duck.’
Mrs Keillor looks away towards the small garden, and tries not to grimace.
She is on dishes today. She has to wait until the rest of them have left before she can begin. When at last they start to drift away, she wheels the urn across the hall and into the kitchenette. She stands for a minute, braces herself with two hands against the sink. Outside, she can hear the ladies calling farewells.
There are steps across the veranda, heavy and businesslike. She turns and smiles expectantly, but it is Val who appears. She is laden with plates, balancing the cake on top.
‘The gossip this week!’ she says. ‘Thought I’d give you a hand, dear.’
Mrs Keillor nods in thanks, hunts out the plug and a dishcloth from under the sink. The running water only trickles, restricted flow. It
meets with Val’s patter: Betty Smith and her daughter-in-law arguing over a recipe; the Mulveys laying people off; the cuts to the ferry service, the company short of cash. Her indignation is pitched with the whistling in the hot-water pipes. It is almost musical, strangely soothing.
‘And Martha’s Bob has been fighting over a boundary line, apparently, with that man who used to live up the hill.’
Mrs Keillor frowns, strains to work out who she is on about.
‘You know . . . The man who got off with Old Mulvey’s daughter . . . Grouchy old devil, Martha called him.’
Mrs Keillor smiles. Darcy, she thinks to herself. She has it wrong, though. It wasn’t Darcy with Laura Mulvey. He was just the help. The husband was a city man, left her with children and all. Sophie, she thinks, sweet little Sophie. And Hannah.
‘I used to babysit her girls,’ Mrs Keillor says, cutting across Val’s flow. ‘Laura Mulvey.’
‘He hasn’t ever tried to fit in with anyone from the village, that man, you know. Spends most his time back up the hill with her, according to Martha.’
But they never did fit in, the family up there. She can remember Harry calling it Snob Hill. And you never saw Old Mulvey down for anything, he never came to the church. His own funeral was the first time he came through the gate. And his son now, exactly the same, still on the old place, living like a lord up there on the hill.
‘Laura, she was always nice,’ Mrs Keillor says. ‘And her girls. Laura’s ill, apparently. We should add her to the prayers list.’
‘One of her girls is back,’ Val informs her. ‘She came off the ferry this morning. Betty was saying she’ll be at the school.’
‘Which one?’
‘Couldn’t tell you,’ Val says cheerfully.
Mrs Keillor holds back her exasperation, lets it sit across the bridge of her nose. She turns off the hot tap, picks up the cloth, changes the subject. ‘Bad about the grapes, isn’t it? We’re going to be well down on last year. And the Allens were saying they’re losing rows and rows to botrytis . . . Horrible, coming into Christmas with that.’
Val nods and passes her a plate. ‘We’re being tested this year, that’s for sure.’
Father John appears suddenly in the doorway. He has changed out of his robes and is wearing a faded woollen jumper and trousers. The crease on his trousers runs crookedly off to his ankle on one side, and Mrs Keillor has to make an effort not to stare. Poor man, she thinks. Poor, dear man. There is an awkward pause.
‘Are you ladies happy to lock up?’ he asks finally.
‘Of course, Father,’ she says. ‘We’re almost finished now, anyway. I’ll just do the flowers. You head on home and have a nice cup of tea.’ She nods at him encouragingly. Val smiles alongside her.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Well, I’ll see you later then.’
He looks so lost she almost winces. Lonely, she thinks, and tries to think of a way to reach out.
‘Father?’
‘Yes?’ He snaps his head up with such alacrity that she almost stops, stutters.
‘Lovely sermon today,’ she says.
He blinks, surprised, then nods once and leaves. Listening to his tread across the veranda, she realises she should have asked him to dinner. She purses her lips, wonders where he’ll be for Christmas and if Harry would have him.
Val frowns. ‘Can we take him in for Christmas, do you think? Will you be here for the holiday? Our Ann is coming over – we’re having a proper family party this year. I’m off to the mainland on Tuesday for a turkey, getting a good big one, and all the trimmings . . .’
Mrs Keillor sighs and turns back to the dishes in the sink.
She goes straight to the pub when they are finished. She knows that is where Harry will be. Her ancient car slides down the limestone road in a haze of dust and loose stones. The urn rattles on the back seat. It needs cleaning, it is filthy inside. The flowers from the service are wrapped in foil, and a chunk of leftover cake sits in a Tupperware container in the footwell. She turns onto the tarmac of the main road and makes herself breathe. The pub appears on the corner, Harry’s ute parked in the shade beside it. And he’d promised – promised – he would come. She pulls in beside his ute and wrenches the handbrake into place with a crunch. She straightens her blouse as she gets out.
The pub looks seedy in the light of day. Sunshine flares off the dirty windows and her reflection comes back warped. She pushes through the heavy door and blinks in the gloom. The carpet is sticky underfoot. Harry is perched on a stool at the bar, a couple of other old men beside him. Drinking their retirement away. Ridiculous, she thinks, at their age, all of them perched up there like birds. Why not sit on the lounge chairs, at least? Up there they look like guilty children.
‘Harry?’ she says.
Harry stares down into his beer as she approaches, refuses to meet her eyes.
‘Mrs Keillor.’ Bull, the publican, nods.
Mrs Keillor gives him a prim nod in return.
Harry says nothing.
She looks at them all a moment then turns. There is nothing, she realises, that she can say. She wonders why she came, and when he stopped believing. In God? Or in her as well? It is only as she pushes against the door that it occurs to her to wonder if he ever did. Was it an act, all of it? Is that all that has really been lost? The door draws shut behind her and a muffled burst of laughter rings out. She stiffens. They are laughing. At her. She purses her lips and walks on, back to the car.
She will take the flowers up to Father John, she decides, once she has had her little cry. (Carry on, she tells herself. Stiff upper lip.) Why shouldn’t she take them to him? He had looked so alone at the church. A gesture, she thinks, to cheer him up. She starts the car and reverses out slowly, turns back towards the church.
The rectory is pretty in the sunshine, its clean bluestone framed by the white of the guttering and windowsills. There is an icon of the Virgin in the window, a miniature replica of the Virgin on the point. She admires it as she pulls in, wonders who carved it. The garden is overgrown. Perhaps the ladies could organise something? She wonders if he would let them, if it would hurt his pride.
The flowers have left a wet mark on the front seat, but they still look fresh and beautiful. She makes herself smile and checks her reflection in a window before she moves on to the front door. She can hear laughter for a second time, she realises, as she raises her hand to knock. She pauses, her courage wavering momentarily. She shakes herself. How stupid, she thinks, and the flowers drip on her arm, so she knocks and sings out, opening the door. It is always unlocked.
‘Father?’ she calls from the hall. The lounge and the corridor are dark. The laughter stops abruptly. ‘Father John?’
‘Out here,’ he calls back, and his voice is strangely shaky.
She tiptoes through the front rooms and finds him in the kitchen, one hand wrapped in frozen peas. The kettle is in the sink, and the teapot half full of old tea. She looks at him, eyes wide. The flowers drip water onto the lino. He is smiling apologetically.
‘I burnt myself,’ he says. ‘The kettle . . . it overflowed.’
‘I – I thought you might like these,’ she says after a moment.
He smiles more normally now. ‘Thank you. They are lovely. Too nice to throw out.’
She nods and moves to the sink, trying to feel some relief. The kettle is still hot. She empties the excess and puts it back on the hob. He hangs behind her like a child and she turns to him.
‘Sit down,’ she says. ‘Let me get it, please.’
He sits. ‘You see,’ he says, ‘I’m still getting used to managing on my own.’
She lights the burner under the kettle, picks up the flowers and pulls away the foil.
‘Have you a vase?’
‘In the cupboard there,’ he says, and points. She pulls one down and trims the stems with scissors from the windowsill. They have his wife’s name written in black on one handle. That laughter, she thinks. There is no one here! It rings through he
r, rattles her.
‘Your hand, Father,’ she says. ‘Did you run it under cold water?’
‘No,’ he says. ‘But I have ice.’
She tuts and puts the flowers down in their vase on the table. The kettle whistles and she bustles around, turning off the stove, finding fresh leaf and emptying the pot, wondering how she might broach Christmas. He just watches, holding his hand out in front of him, wrapped in the packet of peas. She doesn’t realise he is crying until she turns to him with the tea. Tears, just running silently down his face. And him not even seeming to notice them! Looking past her, as if there is someone else there, as if it is someone else he is looking at. She stares openly, until suddenly he comes to, seems to recover himself, sitting up and wiping the tears away.
‘Never worry about me, Mrs Keillor,’ he says.
She can feel her face creasing in sympathy and she lets one hand fall to rest on his shoulder, tries to ignore the way he tenses beneath her touch.
‘Milk and sugar?’ she asks.
‘Just milk,’ he replies, looking away.
*
Hannah stands on the steps to wave Darcy off. He has left them on purpose, she knows. The sun slowly melts down below the brow of the hill and the kookaburras burst into jealous laughter. It is strange, watching him drive away. It almost makes her nervous. A deep clang rings out from the kitchen, and she turns and goes back inside.
Her mother is bent over a heavy saucepan, stirring. The table is already set.
‘Close those curtains,’ her mother calls without looking up. And almost to herself: ‘It’s going to be cold, tonight.’
Hannah stares out at the mild sky and frowns. A soft, deep purple is gathering slowly in the east. She can just make out the rail bridge as it catches the last orange light of the sun, a glowing line out across the bay. She turns and tugs the curtains across.
‘The black horse is looking good,’ she says, leaning on the kitchen door.
‘Not bad,’ her mother replies. ‘I should be feeding them.’
‘I can, while I’m here.’
‘If you wouldn’t mind.’
‘Of course not,’ Hannah says. She moves to the sink, washes her hands for dinner. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
The Salt Madonna Page 2