*
Hannah watches them, feeling like a voyeur. They help her mother forward, one either side, and enthrone her at the front of the church.
‘Please, please,’ they are saying, and: ‘You’re welcome.’
There is a weight in the word which Hannah has not noticed before, a double cushioning of obsequiousness and obligation. Mrs Keillor smiles at Hannah, still holding her mother’s hand. Another lady brings tea and cake, and offers it around. ‘We’ve missed you, you know, Laura,’ she murmurs. ‘It’s been a few weeks, hasn’t it? Are you keeping well? We’ve been praying for you since you last came.’
Hannah can feel her eyes narrow, her face close. The love they are plying is soft and over-sweetened. She cannot reconcile it with the hard posture of her mother’s shoulders, the rigid structure of her dignity, but yet here her mother is. Having almost begged her daughter to bring her. Hannah’s eyes feel stretched. She finds her hand constantly wandering across her face and mouth.
The priest emerges from the vestry. He nods at Hannah as he comes down the aisle, and she doesn’t compose herself quickly enough to respond. By the time she has, he has already passed her, is sitting beside her mother. He leans over her, murmuring. He is engaging, warm, his demeanour pleasant. Hannah can’t hear the words, but her mother is smiling. Mrs Keillor glances back at her again, but Hannah can’t bring herself to move forward. They don’t want her there, in any case, she suspects. They are a circle of faith around her mother, and she is outside. She is the external, the infidel who defines and sharpens the sensation of their love. Mrs Keillor still has hold of her mother’s hand. Hannah tries not to feel jealous.
Darcy is waiting for them on the veranda when they get home. Hannah tugs the keys from the ignition, darts immediately around to the passenger side door, but her mother is already pushing it open and waves away her proffered hand of help. She follows her mother up each of the steps, ready to reach out with support. Their progression is horribly slow. She feels like she is performing for Darcy’s approving gaze. Her mother nods at him at the top, and he opens the door for her, squeezes Hannah’s shoulder as she passes.
‘You’re okay,’ he murmurs. ‘You have to allow her some pride.’
Hannah can feel her face twisting to answer him.
‘Tea?’ her mother asks. She heads for the kitchen without waiting for either of them to reply, and they can hear her at the sink with the kettle, the slow, laborious trickle of water from the tap.
Darcy holds an arm out to keep her back. ‘How was it?’
‘Strange. I thought we were just meeting Lydia Keillor, but it was a whole gaggle of them, plus the priest.’
Darcy grunts. ‘And . . .?’
‘And she sat and had tea with them all, and they made her feel special, and the priest blessed her . . . Christ, Darce, I don’t know. They met us in the church. Why the church?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘When she said she’d been invited out, I thought she meant to one of their houses.’
‘How’d they set it up?’
‘One of them must have come up here again. Mrs Keillor, maybe. She was the one Mum said we were going to see. She’s been coming up here a bit lately.’
‘They see her as an easy convert. I warned you she might be into it right now.’
Hannah snorts. ‘I don’t think so,’ she says instinctively. But it sounds false coming out of her mouth, given where they have just been.
In the kitchen, a cupboard slams.
‘We’re neglecting you,’ Darcy calls as he turns and follows the sound. ‘Sorry. Sit down, Laura, let me get it.’
Hannah can imagine her mother frowning at his tone, but there is no reply. She can’t bring herself to go after him. Instead she slips away to her bedroom, changes her clothes. Outside, the air is numb and the drizzle tastes only faintly of salt. The eucalypt smell of the copse is overpowering. Petrichor, she thinks. The black horse is walking the fence line. Hannah wonders if he is looking for his friend or just coming up for a drink. He calls out when he sees her, picks up a trot, comes over. She reaches a hand under the stiff canvas of his rug. He is hot underneath, the felt lining sticky with dirt and sweat.
‘Hey, big man,’ she murmurs. ‘Hey, beautiful.’
But he pulls away from her and walks again across the paddock, head up and searching. Hannah just stands and watches, doesn’t bother to hold back the tears. They run down her face unimpeded, curl into her collar as she braces herself against the rail and struggles to keep the world from collapsing in.
*
Thomas follows the words on the page. The women lead, as per normal. They must be practising during the week, he realises. Because it wouldn’t do to show confusion, uncertainty. Mrs Keillor sits at the front. She has the authority of a general.
‘O glorious Maid, exalted far,’ they sing, ‘beyond the light of burning star, from Him who made thee thou hast won grace to be mother of His son!’
Thomas glances at his mother. She is singing, but quietly, and one eye is on him. Thomas mumbles the words, barely lets them escape his lips. They lodge in his throat; they taste bad.
‘That which was lost in hapless Eve, thy holy scion did retrieve. The tear-worn sons of Adam’s race, through thee have seen the heavenly place.’
Scion. He thinks of his father in the vines, hears the clack of grape snips. Scions are for cutting. Scion wood is transplanted. The scion is the piece that is risked. He lets himself glance at Mary, holy scion. The words catch and fade.
For communion, they drag Mary out like a stage prop and place her at Father John’s side. Thomas watches as each row files forward to receive the body and the blood of Christ. She is carrying the chalice. The dress is sheer across her breasts. He feels sick. Women bob and flutter before her. Her skin looks like wax in the dull light. And when it is their turn, Thomas finds himself before her without even realising. It is hot, so hot in the church. The windows have steamed with the fug of people’s breath. But the warmth is coming from Mary, he thinks. Kneeling in front of her, he can feel it like a blaze.
‘Why are you here?’ he whispers.
Mary says nothing but looks at him, and she is on fire, he can see it, see the effort it is taking for her to stay still.
‘I’ll help you,’ he adds. ‘I’ll get you out of here.’
When he looks up again, her gaze is still fixed on his, but the moment is gone, she is gone. There is no recognition, the shutters have closed over her face.
Thomas stands, lets his mother take his arm. And they are away again, back to their seat.
‘Darling . . .’ his mother says, and it is a soft voice, sad. Thomas just looks at her before turning back to watch Mary, holding on to the hard edge of their pew.
They all shuffle into the hall when the service is finished. People mingle in small groups, it feels like they are waiting. Thomas chafes at the endless chatter, rattling teacups, platters of fruitcake and cream sponge. The old ladies flutter about, serving people, collecting plates, pretending to be busy. The priest presides at the doorway. People keep glancing at the door expectantly. Mrs Keillor sidles in, whispers something to Father John, and they usher Mary’s mother from the hall.
A few of the ladies exchange glances then turn to the tourists once again with their scones and tea. Watching through the window, Thomas can see Mary’s mother at the door of the church. She is crying. The priest is bent over her solicitously.
Thomas glances at his father and slips away, leaving the hall by the side door.
‘She’s gone,’ Mary’s mother is saying, halfway to hysterical. ‘She just ran . . .’
Mrs Keillor is fluttering in front of her. ‘Ellen, Ellen,’ she is saying. ‘It’s alright, she can’t have gone far.’
Thomas is caught halfway between fear and elation. Gone! She is gone. The priest begins commandeering people, sending them out in different directions. Thomas inhales slowly, feels out her route in his mind. The bridge, he thinks. He imagine
s them walking across it, together. Hope swells. If he runs, he could make it. He could catch her at the bridge. If he goes now.
‘Thomas!’ His mother’s exclamation behind him is heavy with relief. ‘You disappeared.’
Thomas spins to face her, both his parents coming across the grass towards him, their faces lined with worry. His stomach drops.
‘She’s gone,’ he says as they reach him. ‘Mary’s missing, she’s gone.’
The priest looks up at them, notices them for the first time. ‘Can you help?’ he asks. ‘We don’t want to create a stir, but it would be good to send some people out looking.’
Thomas’s parents look at each other, then across at their son. His father shrugs, bewildered, and Thomas feels the frustration like pressure in his chest.
‘We’ll head towards the village,’ Thomas’s mother says, her voice low. She pulls Thomas towards her. ‘Come on,’ she murmurs. ‘You stay with us.’
He has to hold himself back from screaming.
*
Mrs Keillor waits, nominates herself as responsible for keeping the peace, maintaining the calm. Slowly, the hall empties, the tourists filter away. The afternoon tea is abandoned, cups and saucers left scattered across the hall. It annoys her, as she walks out – a little flicker of irritation inside the more consuming anxiety of Mary’s disappearance. Outside, Val hovers anxiously under the veranda of the hall, almost turning in circles. Father John has gone.
‘Are they searching?’ she asks.
‘Who?’ Val says.
Mrs Keillor’s face tightens. ‘The Father, Ellen, everyone. What are you doing here?’
‘He told me to stay put,’ she says, half-frantic. ‘Lydia, what if . . .’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Mrs Keillor cuts in, shielding her eyes to look out across the hill and over the water. ‘Where did they go?’
‘Father John sent some of them walking down through the vines, and Betty and the others have taken Ellen down to the store. They thought she might have gone there, and Ellen was beside herself. They sent someone to Ellen’s place as well, to find Roy. A couple of the families are helping, Father John told them, they’re headed down to the village, and a group just left, going along the beach. She likes walking, Ellen says, and Harry was with them, or maybe with the village group. He’s searching, anyhow. But the Father told me to wait for you.’
Mrs Keillor turns to her distractedly. ‘Yes, yes,’ she says. She drags the hall door closed, and rummages in her handbag for her keys. ‘Are we far behind? We’ll meet them down there.’
Val just shakes her head and follows mutely to the car, her words all spent.
The little group on the beach is gathered and starting towards the point. Mrs Keillor pulls into the last car park, and they walk down through the dunes towards them. It is laborious going. Her church shoes sink deep in the sand, grit caught and rubbing in her stockings. Her bad knee begins to ache. The wind buffets them as they catch the other searchers. They are all women, all younger than herself. Harry is not there, nor Father John. Mrs Keillor wonders what else Val has confused, what messages she has neglected. She feels herself beginning to sweat. She can see one of the women eyeing her judgementally, and she pushes down the feelings of her own inadequacy.
‘Father John sent us to join you,’ she says, and assumes the lead. She walks determinedly, breathes through her nose. On the beach, the day is as hard as glass, the sky a muted blue. The gulls wheel and hang silent.
They find Mary’s shoes sitting at the tide line, and for a moment she lives in terror, until they see the footprints leading clearly away from them down the beach. There is a unanimous sigh of relief. As a group, they follow them. Every now and again the footprints appear to veer off course, wavering erratically.
It is quieter once they round the point. More sheltered. The statue of the Virgin seems to shield them from the gale. A seriousness settles on them. Val twitters quietly beside her, marvels that the girl has come so far.
A dead gull rots, tangled in debris, and a cloud of blowflies rises up, buzzing frantically, and then settles again as they pass. Seaweed ferments in great piles, occasionally lifting fingers to drift in a wave as the tide crawls in. A few bluebottles lie sprawled on the high-water line, their brilliant tentacles tangled behind them. Mrs Keillor steps around each gingerly. Her shoes have started to rub. They will be ruined, she thinks. The beach stretches on endlessly in a shimmer of sand and light.
The river surprises her, when they find it. She has never been around this side of the island – no one comes this far. The inlet is wide and shallow, an open expanse of smooth sand stretching inwards to meet the hill. The river forms a deep bowl, with just one tendril snaking down towards the shore. It is cut off from the sea, sand banked either side as though piled up. It is streaked with black silt. The footprints wind to the edge of the river and stop. It gives the place a sense of rest and finality, as though this is where everything ends. Minnows dart and flicker in the shallows. Mrs Keillor frowns. The women spread out, intent again, searching. She looks into the water and tries unsuccessfully to imagine Mary. Standing, paddling, looking around? She is imagining a child, she realises. A toddler. She has no idea how to imagine the girl.
There is a cave across the other side, a shallow opening set in a crumbling lip of rock. She grimaces and pulls off her own shoes and stockings. She hesitates a moment at the edge, but it is soothing on her feet as she steps in. She nods to herself as though to confirm it, and pushes on. The sand is soft underfoot, silted, almost velvety. She forces herself to look up, not think about it, lifts her skirt above the water and wades through. She allows herself a moment of triumph as she makes it across, but there is no sign of the girl. The cave isn’t large: a rounded chamber with a low ceiling. Empty. The floor is piled with sand. Water drips somewhere further in, a harsh plip that echoes and bounces through and out to the light. She runs a finger along one wall. There are faint traces of red and black streaks. She twists her head. Moving backwards, outwards, she looks again and the impact of it almost sends her to her knees. They are drawings, art. They are huge, enormous, everywhere. They are etched across the roof and down the walls. She stares until she grows dizzy. Everything seems to sway. The cave swells and expands until it seems to go on and down forever, a honeycomb of caves, Chesil not real but hollow underneath, riddled with these caves and these drawings. She is spinning. She closes her eyes, backs away.
A shout comes from behind her. She turns and Val is waving, running madly towards her. Behind her on the sand is Mary, one of the women holding her up, her face pale against the dunes. Mrs Keillor churns back through the water towards them.
They are a happy group, going back. Mrs Keillor can disregard the pain in her feet, her knee. They hold Mary in their midst, each of them at moments laying their hands on her shoulders, guiding her along. Mary lets herself be borne as if by the wind. The girl is limp, completely passive.
Ellen Burnett is waiting outside the store, pacing back and forth. When she sees her daughter, she looks close to collapse.
‘Thank God,’ she says breathlessly. ‘Thank God, Mary, thank God.’ She is crying. Mrs Keillor feels her heart well with pity. Their little group recedes, drawing back to let Ellen through. Mary is silent as her mother pats anxious hands down her arms and across her belly, and then hugs her, holds her shoulders clasped tight, anchors her in place.
*
They come in to the pub after the girl has been found. Bull watches them coming down the main street and knows immediately what the mood will be, the dangerous recklessness of escape. Not just the girl, finding her, but everything – the church, the intensity of it, the increasing presence of the mainlanders, and everything with Mulvey, too. Hope and despair bound up together. He can’t blame them. Of course there is the need for an escape. Of course it will be reckless. In minutes, the pub is full and loud.
Bull lives behind the bar, expands to fill the space with his movement, his voice. There is a nip of w
hisky to keep him jovial, but not too much. He pours the pints and lets them run up their tabs, doesn’t think about when he might be paid. If not here, he knows, if not with him, they would find some other way to drink. They are safer here. He watches and keeps an eye peeled for the warning signs, notes the ones who are close to the edge, who might need a calm hand on their shoulder, the weight of his bulk bearing gently behind it. The men stand loose-legged but upright. The women lean. This, he thinks, is the true difference between the sexes: the shape of their bodies when drunk.
Outside, the afternoon fades into dusk and their voices rise. It is comfortable, all in all. He is at home with the volubility and the noise of the roomful of bodies. He can feel them coming together into something like community, some consciousness and familiarity which goes beyond their breathing the same stale air. This is what the priest has given them. They are talking now, more than they ever did before. None of them believe, he suspects. Not really, not deeply. It is more like a fervour. But all of them will hold on to the story to tide them through. What else have they got? Thank God, the voices say. Bull wonders if he is the only one to feel the irony in it. He doesn’t let himself think about the girl. Enough to think about here, now. He listens to the voices, the shifts in tone.
The tap slips away to foam. Bull nudges the keg beneath. Not yet dark, and they have drunk the whole thing. He checks their faces, double-checks the tenor of the room and decides it is safe to leave them.
Out the back, the kegs stand in a neat row on the concrete floor of the coolstore. He pulls the closest one towards himself and balances it on its rim. The crying comes to him as a surprise. It is soft, insistent beneath the noise of the bar.
Bull drops the keg, closes the coolroom door, and sticks his head out the flyscreen door into the alley behind.
The man is doubled over in the long grass, and he is vomiting, and he is crying, and even through the mix of vomit and tears, Bull can feel the dark warning in his presence.
The Salt Madonna Page 23