‘But imagine.’
Mary hovers in front of them, so completely unsure of how to react that her body seems to weave back and forth of its own accord.
‘Well, girl?’
Mary says nothing.
Her father laughs. ‘I’m not going to pay for you to run off by yourself to the city, no one keeping an eye on you. Fuck’s sake. No.’ He screws the form up into a ball and throws it into the corner of the room. ‘You don’t need anything more than I had.’
Her mother looks up at her apologetically, gets up to retrieve the paper and hands it back to Mary, still crumpled. ‘There’s the school on the mainland, love,’ she says. ‘You can go over each week on the ferry, stay with Suzie in town.’
‘It was good enough for me,’ her father says. ‘It’ll be good enough for you.’
Mary has to hold herself from crying. Girl, she thinks. Not even her name. He doesn’t know anything about her. She doesn’t matter at all.
Her father turns the television on. Her mother pats the couch beside them. Mary shakes her head and slinks backwards into the kitchen. Her hands are trembling, she realises, like her mother’s were.
Sitting in the classroom, Mary hears her father’s words again and again. Outside, the sunshine chases the clouds across the sky. It is a north wind, a hot wind. It carries dust from the mainland. The classroom flickers in and out of shadow as one by one the clouds fly past. The windows are open, but they do nothing to cool the room. The thin pages of their exercise books flutter in time. Miss Mulvey is at the front of the classroom, and Mary thinks again of the form and tries to work out what to say to her.
‘Well, Thomas,’ Miss Mulvey says, turning from the row of numbers that have appeared on the blackboard. ‘What have you got?’
Thomas flinches and looks up. Mary counts on her fingers under the table and waits for him to answer.
‘Seven?’ he guesses.
The teacher turns. ‘Mary?’ she asks.
‘Twelve,’ Mary says.
Miss Mulvey smiles. ‘Care to explain how you got there?’
Mary stands and takes the chalk from her, avoids her eyes. She has to stretch to write on the blackboard. The chalk squeaks and scratches. Mary’s teeth clench with the sound and her toes curl in her shoes.
Mary leaves the classroom at the end of the day still tense, still heavy. Miss Mulvey has not asked about the form. Mary looks up the hill and imagines her father swearing over Mulvey’s broken backhoe. There is no way she is going home. A handful of parents are waiting outside the school gate. Mary walks past with her head down and on instinct follows the three boys along the road towards the village. One of the mothers looks up as she goes, tuts quietly, and Mary feels something resembling a nervous sort of pride spike up in her. Thomas slows as she joins them and she falls into step beside him. He smiles.
‘You coming?’
‘Where?’ she asks.
‘Store?’ Ben says, and Picnic nods.
The door at the store is propped open. The plastic streamers of the fly curtain twist and dance out from the greying frame as though trying to escape. Everything sweats in the heat. Mary squints, waits for her eyes to adjust to the gloom after the brilliance of the sky outside.
‘Chocolate?’ Picnic asks as she slides into a seat at the closest table. She nods and passes him a handful of change. Behind the counter, Sarah sings as she pours milk from the fridge into the stainless-steel cups. There is a poster taped onto the tabletop: EASTER PARADE, EASTER SUNDAY, 19TH APRIL! MARKET STALLS, STARTS 10 AM. Mary picks at a corner of it, tears away a tiny triangle of coloured paper. Thomas appears in front of her, hands her a milkshake and smiles.
‘Thanks,’ she says as they sit down.
‘She’s a slut,’ Ben says suddenly, not bothering to lower his voice. They all stare at him, and Mary flicks a glance up to Sarah behind the counter, standing stiff now at the milkshake machine.
‘What?’ Thomas says.
‘She’s sleeping with Nugget,’ Ben says.
Mary rolls her eyes. ‘Seriously?’ she says, disbelieving.
‘Nugget’s already got a woman,’ Picnic says. ‘He’s with Marnie.’
‘Then he’s fucking both of ’em,’ Ben replies. ‘Dad was talking about it last night.’
‘Shut up,’ Thomas growls and Ben laughs. There is a moment of silence, and Ben slurps at his milkshake. Sarah turns from the milkshake machine and disappears out the back.
‘C’mon,’ Picnic says. ‘Let’s go.’
Ben grins and they stand and leave. Over her shoulder, Mary sees Ben lift a packet of cigarettes from behind the counter as he goes. Thomas shuffles and Mary can tell he doesn’t like it. He stops on the veranda outside.
‘I’ve gotta go,’ he says abruptly.
‘Ha! Pussy!’ Ben leers at him. ‘Can’t hack me pinching some fags? Running home scared?’
Picnic laughs but Thomas just shakes his head. ‘I’m going past your place,’ he says to Mary. She can feel the question in it, pulling her, fighting her reluctance to go home.
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘I’ll come.’
Thomas grins and she blushes. Home is nothing, she tells herself. Picnic wolf-whistles as they walk away.
Mary’s father is not there when she gets to the top of the drive. The house is quiet. She looks back to Thomas, and catches him turned looking at her. Stop, she thinks, please stop, but he waves and walks on up the road. Beach tomorrow, she tells herself. He told her they were going rather than asking her to come, but still she holds on to it like a charm.
Inside, her mother is waiting with her mouth drawn tight, sitting in the kitchen with her magazine and a cup of tea.
‘Out doing?’ she asks, looking up as Mary comes in.
‘Nothing,’ Mary says. ‘We got milkshakes.’
‘Any homework? You better get on and do it.’
Mary just looks at her and all the rage comes back. She can’t breathe.
‘What does it matter if I do?’ she asks. ‘You don’t want me to go to a proper school anyway.’
‘Mary,’ her mother calls, as she storms out. ‘Don’t you be like that!’
Mary slams her bedroom door behind her and screams it all into her pillows.
Miss Mulvey asks them about the forms the next morning at school. Mary’s stomach tightens and she can feel her hands clench into anxious fists. Thomas hands his to the teacher with a red flush creeping up his neck.
‘Do you have yours, Mary?’ she asks, bright and cheerful.
Mary bites her lip. ‘Forgot it, Miss Mulvey,’ she mutters.
‘I’ll need it on Monday at the latest,’ Miss Mulvey says and moves on.
‘You putting in for it?’ Picnic whispers beside her.
She shakes her head. ‘Dad said no.’
Picnic nods and sits back. He almost looks happy, Mary thinks. She stares at her desk and then across at Thomas. He is staring at the board with his chin stuck out, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.
They go down to the beach after school. The day is bright again, clear and hot. Mary has her bathers on under her dress. They strip off and swim, kicking about in the shallows, flipping in the waves. Mary comes out eventually to lie on her stomach in the dunes, thinks about the weekend ahead and how she might avoid her father. One by one, the boys follow her out of the water and up the sand. Picnic looks up and down the beach then pulls the packet of cigarettes from Ben’s bag. He shakes it and draws one out, trying not to drip water on it. Mary watches but doesn’t say anything. He offers them around and Ben takes one.
‘We doing anything for the weekend?’ he asks as he lights it.
‘Nah,’ Picnic says. ‘Mum’s home. She’ll notice we’re pinching her supply.’
Ben coughs and spits into the sand. Thomas shakes his head.
‘Which school?’ Mary asks Thomas suddenly.
‘What?’
‘Which school will you go to?’
‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Trinity.’
Mary lo
oks down and draws in the sand between her elbows.
‘Dad went there,’ Thomas says, and she looks up again. He is staring straight ahead, like in the classroom.
‘Rich cunt,’ Ben crows, laughing.
‘What are your folks doing here, then?’ Picnic asks, looking at Thomas as though he is something new, something strange.
Thomas shrugs. ‘Dad wanted a vineyard.’
No one says anything in reply. Picnic throws his butt into the dunes and Mary stares after it. Thomas stands up after a moment and dusts himself off.
‘Let’s go,’ he says.
When they get back up to the road, the other boys stride ahead as Thomas falls into place beside her. She is frozen in silence without really knowing why. She feels as though she is holding her breath. They turn up away from the village towards her place, and still Thomas walks beside her.
‘Why didn’t you hand the form in?’ Thomas asks as they reach her gate.
Mary looks down at her feet. ‘Dad wouldn’t sign it,’ she says.
Thomas stares at her a moment. ‘What’s your mum reckon?’
She shrugs. ‘Dunno,’ she says, and turns away to walk up the drive.
‘Wanna come to the bridge with me?’ Thomas calls.
Mary stops, feels her cheeks start to glow. She turns around again to face him. ‘The bridge?’ They both know what it means.
Thomas just nods.
‘Yeah,’ she says finally. ‘Okay. When?’
‘Tomorrow,’ he says, and grins at her. ‘Lunchtime? Meet you on the beach, past the jetty.’
Mary nods then walks away up the drive. She has to stop herself from laughing aloud.
He is waiting for her when she makes it down to the beach the next day. He looks up half surprised when she appears, and grins. The clouds are back, and the sky is close and grey and muggy. The bridge looms as they walk along the beach and then suddenly they are at the pylons, clambering up into the dunes. Mary follows the bridge with her eyes across to the mainland. It pulls at her. The waves suck and swirl around each pylon’s base. Halfway up, where the bridge meets the ground, there’s a fire pit, black and dirty, a broken bottle in its depths. A fence rears up. At the top of the slope, the gate is padlocked, chains heavy around the post. Yellow tape flutters, draped across it. A sign has faded beyond reading. DANGER, the tape says. DANGER, DANGER.
Thomas pushes on past the gate to a gap in the wire further up. He has been here before, Mary realises. She pauses before she climbs through. The railyard spreads out around them. Further up, she can see the rusting hulks of trains sitting patiently in sidings, decommissioned in state. A crane hangs drunkenly over a loading bay, its hook swinging gently in the breeze. A couple of battered grape crates are piled in a wobbly stack at its base. She can see the hut they went to on the excursion. It seems a long time ago. Her father worked here, once, she remembers, as Thomas leads her across the rails and out towards the bridge. She tries to imagine her father on the crane, at the loading dock with the crates full of grapes, and fails.
Out on the bridge, the water is clear blue between each sleeper. Occasionally one rocks, loose in its bracket under her feet. She has to keep herself from thinking about falling through, dropping into the ocean below.
‘Stay near the rails,’ Thomas tells her. ‘The sleepers are rotten in the middle, some of ’em.’
Mary looks across and can’t tell if he is joking. Thomas is holding a hand out to her, beckoning. She feels her cheeks warm and steps sideways to the safety of the iron opposite him. Thomas smiles and keeps going. The dark wash of the sea beneath Mary’s feet gives her vertigo. She skips back across the middle to follow Thomas on the other side. There are workman’s loops at regular intervals, rusty ladders hanging down over tiny wooden platforms. Thomas stops suddenly and pulls her down to sit on one. The waves lap in and out, in and out, below.
‘Can I show you something?’ Mary asks him.
He looks at her.
She pulls the folded form out of her pocket.
‘I forged Dad’s signature. D’you think Miss Mulvey’ll be able to tell?’
His eyes open wide. ‘You forged it?’
She nods, looking down. He laughs. When he takes the form, his hand brushes against hers.
He unfolds it. ‘Looks real to me,’ he says.
Mary looks away, doesn’t know what to say. His laughter makes her feel tight.
‘Hey,’ he says, and puts an arm around her shoulder, pulling her towards him.
Slowly she turns to face him and he leans in and kisses her. She freezes with the shock of it and he pulls back.
‘What?’ he demands. He sounds angry. ‘I thought that’s what we’re here for?’
Mary goes numb; she can feel the blush rising from her neck and up her cheeks. Her mouth hangs open and she says nothing. Thomas swears and makes to stand up. She grabs at his shoulder.
‘Don’t go,’ she says. It comes out like she is begging. He sits back down again slowly. She leans in towards him. This time when he kisses her, she kisses him back. He tastes of corn chips. Their teeth bump together and he pushes his tongue into her mouth. She wants to shout out, laugh, cry, anything, everything. She feels almost hysterical with triumph. By the time they walk back along the bridge, her lips are swollen. When he holds her hand, she can feel her heartbeat accelerate.
On Monday, when she sees Thomas at school, Mary blushes and they both say nothing. The heat is overwhelming, the sky grey and intense and heavy. There’s a storm coming, and it makes her feel strange deep inside. It feels inevitable.
At lunch, they all just flop around, the four of them down the back in the shade of the trees on the boundary line. Thomas’s hand creeps sideways to brush up against hers. She can feel sweat prickling down her back. He ignores her, but she can tell he is wound just as tight as she is. They are the last ones back inside when the bell goes, and get caught in an awkward dance in the doorway.
Miss Mulvey is waiting for them. She calls out before Mary can sit down.
‘Your form, Mary? For the scholarship?’
She has one hand stretched out in expectation. Mary tries to stay casual, tries to hold her face straight, turns to her bag and rummages in it for the creased paper. She can feel the pressure of Thomas’s eyes on her as she hands it to Miss Mulvey. The teacher opens it, scans it perfunctorily and nods. She is happy. Mary feels herself release. Coming back, she slides into the seat beside Thomas without looking at him. She doesn’t say anything, but she can feel him still buzzing beside her.
*
Hannah wants to laugh with delight when Mary gives her the form on Monday. It is crumpled and marked, but signed. She smiles at the girl. ‘Thanks,’ she says as Mary sits down. ‘We can talk about the exam later.’
The girl doesn’t reply. She has almost run back to her seat. She is sitting next to Thomas now, and Hannah can’t help but smile again. Sticking together? It gives her hope. She should talk to their parents, she thinks. They will need support in this. She sits down again at her desk and lets the class chatter as they work. It is muggy again, oppressive. She looks out the window at the storm clouds gathering in the west. It will be here by this evening; she makes a mental note to check the horses when she gets home.
At the end of the day, the four year nines leave together. In the office, she finds Mrs Culliver fanning herself behind a humming computer. The air in the room is stagnant and heavy.
‘Do we have addresses for the families?’ Hannah asks. ‘I want to go talk to the parents of the two who are putting in for the scholarship.’
‘You got two?’ Mrs Culliver asks. She looks surprised.
‘Mary Burnett and Thomas Holt.’
‘I wouldn’t bother talking to the Burnetts,’ the headmistress says. ‘But they’re both up the road behind the village. The Burnetts’ is first. There isn’t a sign, but there’s a couple of cars out the front. Untidy kind of place. Opposite the Keillors’, who’ve got the white wooden gates. The Holts are
a bit further on. It’s called Bayview or something stupid like that. It’s a vineyard – you’ll see the name on the gate.’
She turns back to her computer. I have been dismissed, Hannah thinks, and she picks up her bag. Mrs Culliver looks up again as Hannah reaches the door.
‘Watch out for the father,’ she calls. ‘Roy Burnett. Watch out for him.’
‘What do you mean, watch out?’
‘Oh, he’s a bit rough around the edges. Plus he doesn’t really think education is a priority. Talk to Ellen.’
‘The mother?’
‘Mmm. She’s sensible.’
Hannah waves a hand in acknowledgement and keeps going. She is humming to herself as she climbs into her little green car and puts the forms on the seat beside her. The heat is suddenly bearable, though the clouds still climb on the horizon. The world is held waiting with some enormous sense of energy, of promise. She just sits a moment before starting the car. This is a victory, she thinks. It feels like a good thing.
*
Mary sits through the afternoon in a daze. Around her, the world builds up into a crescendo, wind and heat and the sensation of Thomas, tense beside her . . . The four of them walk out together when the day is finished. At the store, Thomas buys her a milkshake, and she takes it without saying anything. Picnic grins at her across the table with evil eyes. Mary looks away, her face hot again. Walking home, they turn off up the hill and it is just her and Thomas, alone. Her hands are pressed to her sides. There are clouds gathering dark on the horizon, black and brown and wild, and the electricity in them seems to flood through her body in waves. As they near the gate to her place, Thomas looks back over his shoulder towards the village then grabs at her hand, pulls her sideways off the road, in behind a stand of trees. He is kissing her again before she knows what is happening, she is pulled in tight against him, she can feel his hands on her, and it is frantic, and she can’t hear anything anymore. A green car whirls past in a cloud of dust and they spring away from each other and freeze. Thomas takes a step forward and peers out again from behind their cover.
‘It’s turned in to yours,’ he says.
‘The bridge again?’ she asks.
‘Tomorrow,’ he says. ‘After the others go home.’
The Salt Madonna Page 10