The Salt Madonna

by Catherine Noske

  When I did, I dreamt that we were camping, like we did when we were children. Our mother would take us down the paddock in the tractor, set us up with a fire and swags. We’d cook damper with honey, melt chocolate inside bananas wrapped in foil. In my dream, Sophie wasn’t there, it was just my mother and me. We had our mustard-coloured tent and the gas lantern. There was a woman tied to a tree, and my mother was washing her with a cloth from a bucket, brisk and businesslike. The woman was twisting and turning, and my mother would slap her each time she did, like she used to slap us – just a tap on the arm or leg. My uncle Mulvey appeared, holding Darcy with his arms pinned behind his back. He wanted me to help him. It was my job to bring the rope, but I couldn’t find it. I ran around looking for it. I asked my mother if I could use the rope binding the woman, but she wouldn’t let me. She was so disappointed in me for asking.

  It was only later, when I saw my mother at the church, crossing herself, that I finally realised what was happening with Mary, how solid and forceful that faith had become. I remember how it was a revelation for me – that someone I loved so much could buy into it all so easily. It was so strange – of all people, my mother! The woman who raised us in the image of her own brutal pragmatism . . . But, then, I forget that she was dying. Perhaps it meant something to her, the possibility of faith and resurrection, or some freedom and redemption in the hereafter. She might have felt invested in a miracle. She was only human, after all. Perhaps she was afraid.

  Oh, I feel so old! And so tired. That version of me, sitting beside my mother in the church: she is so far away. She’s caught, out to sea. I would mourn her if I could.

  X

  June 1992

  Pentecost, 7 June

  Trinity Sunday, 14 June

  Corpus Christi, 18 June

  MRS KEILLOR WAKES EARLY to hear the bell ringing. It reaches out to her from the church, floating across the village and over the bay, almost fragile on the water. She smiles. The room is still and pale with dawn.

  Harry drags himself out of bed and scrambles to the phone in the hallway. She can hear him calling Frank, Bull, questioning, each conversation a replay of the last. She rises and pulls slacks and a woollen jumper from the wardrobe. Still the bell tolls. She can feel it drawing her, can see already Father John with his rope, his splice on the handle holding firm.

  ‘It isn’t a fire,’ she calls. ‘Everything’s okay.’

  She goes out into the hall. In his vest and shorts, Harry looks heavy, paunchy, cold.

  He looks at her. ‘Hold on,’ he says into the receiver, then to her: ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Everything’s okay,’ she says again. ‘It isn’t a fire. I’ll be back soon.’

  ‘What? Don’t you . . .’

  But she is already walking past him, out through the kitchen and across the veranda to her car.

  As she drives, she can see lights coming on in the houses, people reacting to the bell. At the church, the hall is streaming light. Father John is waiting in the doorway. The last peals of the bell die away.

  ‘You came,’ he says as she walks across the grass.

  ‘Yes,’ she says, and behind her other cars are pulling in, two of them, three. She looks around to see Val, Betty, Sarah . . . ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘We’re here.’

  ‘Come in,’ he says, and leads them into the hall. Ellen Burnett is there waiting, smiling, eyes wet. The priest smiles at her. ‘You see? I told you they would come when we rang the bell!’

  The hall has been heated, the urn is boiling. Mrs Keillor feels her body relax.

  ‘The church calls,’ Father John says, ‘and the faithful answer.’

  The women around him glance at each other and smile, almost shy. There are seats ready for them, arranged in a circle, and tea and biscuits have been set out. Mrs Keillor reaches for the pot and pours out the cups. The familiarity of the Sunday ritual is odd in the early morning light. She can see the others wondering why they are there.

  ‘I have eaten in your houses,’ Father John says as he takes his cup from her, ‘so many times. It is so nice to have you join me in mine.’ He raises the cup to her, eyes bright. ‘Thank you.’

  Mrs Keillor can feel herself blushing. Of course, she thinks, this is his home. His spiritual home, more important always than the physical. The priest looks around at them all, seated, cups in hands. Waiting for him.

  ‘I asked you each for your help,’ he says. He glances back towards the doorway, the blank stone of the church in the early light. ‘When there is something in the world we can’t explain, God asks us to have faith. But faith needs a community in order to grow strong, to be able to offer salvation.’ His voice is soft and almost sad. Sarah’s face is bent with pity.

  ‘What you did with the parade was wonderful, bringing everyone together.’ He stops a moment and bows his head towards Mrs Keillor.

  ‘But?’ Val prompts.

  ‘But we didn’t understand, then.’

  ‘No,’ Ellen whispers.

  ‘And there have been things since that we can’t explain, things which are not possible.’

  ‘The grapes,’ Ellen says, her voice firmer now.

  ‘The river,’ Sarah adds.

  ‘The baby,’ Val says. Excitement has started to creep in, their faces around her becoming more animated.

  ‘It’s real,’ Ellen answers. ‘It’s true. People have started to hear . . .’

  Between the different voices, Mrs Keillor can feel it rising again, the same warmth, she can feel them coming together. She remembers Mary, raised above them at the parade, her face still and calm.

  ‘These things, these events – we can’t explain them. All we can do is accept,’ the priest says, voice low now, quieter, as they grow stronger. ‘He asks faith of us. We all need faith. Through faith, we find trust, and togetherness, and hope. And in this way He offers mercy, and salvation.’

  Mrs Keillor remembers the feeling of everyone moving up to the church together, the power of their unison, the homeliness of it. ‘You need us to help show others . . . Is that right?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes,’ he says.

  Mrs Keillor nods. ‘We’ll help.’

  Across the circle, Val raises her hand to her mouth. Nothing needs to be said. The energy between them is electric, all of them together in their common purpose, reaching for the shining future they can suddenly see.

  ‘Yes,’ Father John whispers. She can feel his love. ‘Disciples to His miracles.’

  *

  Thomas wakes to the sound of the bell. It rolls across the island like a wave, in and out, washing gently across his dream. He is momentarily conscious of his parents in the room down the hall, moving about. He hears the phone, his mother’s voice. But then it stops ringing and he slides uneasily back into his dreams, as though it has washed him away.

  It is not late when he wakes again, his mother thumping on his door, though it feels like hours. Her sympathy for him has tired, her patience giving way to frustration. He ignores her, watches the pale light through the crack in his curtains.

  ‘Thomas, get up. School!’ his mother yells, retreating down the hallway. He contemplates sleeping again, but sleep will not come back, and he knows his mother will. The morning is clear and cool. He stands, shakes off the doona and shivers, finds a t-shirt on the floor. His bedroom door creaks.

  ‘Shower and breakfast, now!’ his mother calls again from the kitchen.

  Again he ignores her and slips out through the laundry, laces his runners at the back door, and takes off. He doesn’t look back to see if she has heard. There is no way she will catch him, anyway, so he runs, head up and light, straight down the driveway and over the fence to cross the paddocks. Down towards the water. The soft path is comfortable, familiar. They used to come this way when he was small, he and his mother, walking across the farmland for a swim. The beach is their own, the path through the dunes connecting to the bottom corner of their land, where it meets Mulvey’s. Thomas looks back up to the house as
he reaches the dunes, but from this distance there is no sign that his absence has been noticed. Everything is still, the empty paddock spread like an apron beneath the frills of the vines at the neck of the house. A rooster somewhere reaches broken-throated for crowing. Thomas turns away again and into the dunes, tastes the salt on his lips. In the water, everything is silenced. The wash and pull of the waves disturbs him – he swims out beyond the break and floats in the clear green. Every now and then the swell lifts him high enough that he can see over the beach and back towards the village. People are beginning to move. He floats until he can’t feel his face anymore. Legs like wood, he surrenders and lets himself be pulled back through the breakers and to the shore.

  He is starving. The sand and cold breeze are a dilemma. He rubs himself down with his t-shirt and contemplates running home again, but can’t bring himself to do it. His mother will still be there. Wet and sandy, he pulls the shirt on and heads for Picnic’s place instead, until he remembers. Arms wrapped around himself, he swears, changes course. There is a beach towel on the line at Ben’s, dried stiff as card. He pulls it down and rubs himself dry, keeps it wrapped around his shoulders. There is noise from the house, and he can see a light on in the living room, but he doesn’t go in. Ben will have left already, he tells himself. He slips back out the front yard and walks down to the store instead.

  ‘Man of the moment,’ a man says, leaning on the window out the front of the pub. Thomas looks up, startled. ‘Whelp,’ the man mutters, and spits at his feet.

  A woman emerges from around the corner, an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips. She raises her eyebrows at the sight of Thomas. ‘Lonnie,’ she says, offering him the open packet and joining him at the window, ‘what’re you doing to the poor boy?’

  Thomas says nothing but continues past them, head down. The woman laughs and the man chuckles. He can hear them still as he pushes through the door of the store.

  He finds himself in the pub in the afternoon. He is hungry again, but he can’t bring himself to go back to the store. The woman will smell a rat, he thinks. He imagines her calling his mother. But all he has eaten since waking is half a loaf of bread and an apple. He slips in through the dark glass of the door to the pub and hopes it will be empty, just Bull, and the chance of some chips. But Bull isn’t there. An old man is sitting at the bar, and a gang of Mulvey’s farmhands are playing pool, coins lined up in stacks on the rail of the table. One of them is the man from the street, and he crows again as Thomas comes in.

  ‘Come to join the real men, eh, sunshine? Now you’re going to be a daddy!’

  The others around him laugh.

  ‘Wasn’t me,’ Thomas mutters.

  ‘What’s that?’ the man calls. His voice is high-pitched and mocking. ‘You want a toast? You’re right, we should be celebrating. But wait, you’re not old enough to drink!’

  The laughter is half-hearted now.

  ‘Play your shot, Lon,’ one of the other men says. A couple of them are looking at Thomas as though he is something dirty.

  ‘Wasn’t me,’ he says again, louder.

  ‘Here, boy,’ the old guy calls from the bar. He gestures to a stool beside him. ‘You’re the Holts’ kid, aren’t you? What’s your name?’

  Thomas takes the proffered seat but doesn’t answer.

  Bull comes in from the back and frowns when he sees Thomas at the bar.

  ‘Tom,’ he says. ‘What’re you doing in here?’

  ‘Just wanted something to eat.’

  ‘You know I can’t serve you without your parents here.’

  ‘S’alright, Bull,’ the old guy next to him says. ‘He can sit with me.’

  Bull looks at Thomas, takes in the dirty t-shirt, the stolen towel still around his neck. ‘Fish and chips?’

  Thomas nods and Bull turns again and disappears through the door to the kitchen. ‘Thanks,’ Thomas says to the old guy.

  ‘I’ve gotta be out of here soon,’ he says. ‘So eat quick.’

  ‘Sure,’ Thomas replies. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Hey, Darcy,’ Bull calls, sticking his head around the doorframe. ‘You want to get him a drink?’

  The man – Darcy – slips from his stool, goes around the end of the bar and pulls two glasses down. For a brief, hopeful moment, Thomas thinks he is going to pull him a beer, but instead he lifts the post mix and aims it at one glass then the other.

  ‘Dry ginger,’ he says, passing a glass over the bar. His voice is soft and gravelly. ‘That okay? I’ll keep you company.’ He reaches for the TV remote and turns it on, flicks through the channels until he finds a replay of an old football game, then comes back around to resume his position beside Thomas. The ginger ale is light and spicy.

  Bull returns with a plate of fried fish and a bowl of chips which he sits between them.

  ‘Go on then,’ he says to Thomas.

  Thomas shakes a handful of chips onto his plate and leans over it to eat. The fish is oily and soft. Darcy watches him, frowning, while Bull leans over and helps himself to the chips.

  There is a sudden bang as the door to the pub is flung open with such force it hits the wall behind.

  ‘It’s over,’ the man says, addressing the group at the pool table. ‘We’re done.’ He pauses, still standing in the doorway, and Thomas has the sense he is waiting as much for the drama of it as anything else. ‘The bank is repossessing Mulvey’s. We’re all finished.’

  Bull exhales, a puff of surprise. One of the men swears. Around him, Thomas feels the room swell with disbelief.

  ‘Done, Harry?’ Bull asks. ‘Really?’

  ‘Done. He told me half an hour ago. He told me not to say anything, but bugger that . . . He’s laying us all off. It’ll happen slowly, in the next month or so. He’s got nothing to pay us what he’s owing, even.’

  The men at the pool table don’t seem to know what to do with themselves. One of them sits down on the floor, just drops where he was standing. Bull reaches for a pot and pulls Harry a drink. He joins them at the bar, taking a seat beside Thomas. He gives the boy a puzzled glance, but ignores him. Thomas shrinks on his stool. He feels like an intruder. On his other side, Darcy starts to laugh. ‘Never thought I’d see it end.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ one of the young men spits. He throws his pool cue down onto the baize, marks the table with chalk. ‘I’ve got nothing without that job.’

  ‘None of us have anything.’

  The bar goes quiet. Thomas waits for the snort or the joke, but it never comes.

  *

  Mrs Keillor is ready for him. Sitting at the kitchen table, she feels bolstered by the knowledge of the importance of her mission, and Harry’s resistance to it. She is prepared. She has a small bag packed. She has not made the dinner. If he is going to fend for himself, she thinks, he might as well start now. It will give him something to do, help get him over the shock of it. She can’t remember the last time she felt so sure of herself.

  He is late coming in. She waits, her chair pulled out to face the door so she is there and ready when he walks through. For once, she has the world of patience. And Val will have her, she thinks. It is past the point of evening that she could go to Father John, but Val will take her in and not ask too many questions.

  The lights of his truck appear in the driveway and she watches the door expectantly. He doesn’t come in immediately, though; he sits in the cab for at least five minutes before she hears the door to the ute open and his uneven tread across the veranda. He stands in the doorway and looks at her, quiet in the falling light.

  ‘So you’ve heard,’ Harry says.

  ‘Heard what?’ she asks.

  There is a moment of confusion on both parts. He looks at her like she’s a crazy woman.

  ‘You don’t know about Mulvey? Why the fuck are you sitting in the dark, then?’ he growls.

  She gapes and instinctively opens her mouth to reprimand him, but he ploughs on. ‘He’s bankrupt. I’ve lost my job. Everyone has. I’ve given everything to th
at bastard.’ His voice is breaking, and she realises he is close to tears.

  One moment he is standing in front of her, and the next he is on his knees on the kitchen lino. She looks down at him, and even as she despises him she can feel pity. She cannot remember seeing him cry before. He covers his face and rests his head on her knee. She can smell beer on him and his head is heavy. He is drunk. She lays a hand on his shoulder, and he gasps.

  All her pre-prepared words slide away from her, but the power and the chance of the moment rises up in their place. ‘You have to have more faith, Harry.’ He shows no sign of having heard, but she can tell he is listening. ‘We will be saved. You just need to follow me.’

  ‘You bitch,’ he says. ‘You’re talking about that shit now?’

  ‘You can’t talk like that to me,’ she replies, without anger.

  He jerks upwards, looks at her. She can see that he is shaken, can feel the fragility of the ground beneath him.

  She stands and pushes him away from her legs, turns and lifts her bag onto the table. ‘And there will be changes here.’

  ‘You’re leaving me?’ he cries. ‘Now, when I need you?’ He collapses to the floor again and starts to sob.

  She watches him impassively, waiting for him to stop. Through him, she can feel the timeliness of it, the overwhelming need for miracles if they all are to survive. She unzips her bag and pulls out her purse and keys. Outside, the last of the day’s light seeps from the sky, and darkness closes in.

  Eventually her husband grows quiet. He looks up at her and she offers him a hand, helps him onto a chair.

  ‘We will be doing things my way from now on,’ she says. There are so many plans to make, there is so much to do. She turns on the lights. They both blink in the suddenness of it. His eyes are red, his mouth loose. She stands before him, and thinks of the priest’s love and grace. It fills her with confidence. She reaches out to stroke Harry’s face, smooths the hair back from his forehead, draws his chin up until his eyes meet hers. ‘Everything will be simple,’ she says. It is like an affirmation, and she can see it sinking through him. Love! She is filled with it. ‘We will live differently now, go back to our roots. We will redeem ourselves, redeem the island. Father John will lead us. We will survive.’