The Golden Day

by Ursula Dubosarsky

  Cubby looked. Icara stopped rowing, letting the oars sit in the rowlocks. The boat swayed up and down. Cubby saw a tyre suspended from a tree branch that hung over the water, for swinging and jumping. Behind the tyre on the riverbank, half-hidden by a tangle of twigs and fallen branches, was a wooden cut-out figure of a deer with pale painted spots. Next to it was a sign, falling down on one side. It said, ‘Welcome to Fairyland.’

  ‘What is it?’ asked Cubby.

  ‘Fairyland,’ whispered Icara.

  The boat floated further on. Peering out from the depths of the gums stood a flat and faded wooden Snow White, black hair, blue dress, pink skin, red lips.

  ‘It looks so old,’ said Cubby.

  ‘It is old,’ said Icara. ‘It’s like a picnic place. It closed down. Ages ago.’

  The boat drifted.

  ‘I had a birthday party there,’ said Icara, ‘when I was six. There are swings and things. And a flying fox.’

  The boat was being drawn through the water towards the riverbank, closer and closer to the wooden figures and the collapsing sign.

  ‘My mother was there,’ said Icara. ‘At the party.’

  So Icara’s mother had not always been in Los Angeles. She had been married to the judge, and they had lived together with Icara, just like everybody else’s family.

  ‘Was it good?’ asked Cubby shyly. ‘The party?’

  Swish swish swish.

  ‘Everybody was happy,’ replied Icara.

  Cubby felt a shift of fear, she didn’t know why. The Snow White figure was too near, the peeling smile too sweet. She could see the wood rotting in the growing darkness. Something rustled deep in the ferns.

  ‘It’s late, it must be so late,’ she said. ‘Let’s go back.’

  Icara didn’t answer. Her eyes were fixed on the swaying water. The trees on either side of the river had become shadows – they had lost all their colour. She turned to Cubby, two dimly shining eyes.

  ‘Do you believe in ghosts, Cubby?’ she asked.

  Thicker than shadows, the trees were like walls closing in on either side.

  I don’t know, said Cubby inside her head. I don’t know.

  Not now. Not ever.

  Worse than walls, they were black and huge, like claws moving forwards with predatory, scratching sounds.

  ‘Let’s go home,’ said Cubby, terrified. ‘Please, Icara. Let’s go home.’

  Icara sighed, such a deep sigh. She lifted the oars and began to row. She rowed away from the sharp claws and away from the trembling Snow White, back towards the house. Little lights shone at a distance, each moment getting closer. Cubby’s heartbeat began to slow, the danger was passing.

  They didn’t speak at all, not on the journey back, not as they pulled the boat to the shore of the little beach, not as they found their dry shoes and socks on the rock and put them on, not as they made their way up the path through the bush to the house. It was as though they had been drained of language.

  As they came nearer to the house they heard the sound of the television singing out advertisements into the night air. It was so late! Cubby would have to ring her mother at once to let her know where she was, before getting the bus home.

  But when they came in, it wasn’t Mrs Ellerman sitting with her sewing on her lap, watching television. It wasn’t the judge, with his newspaper and his cigarette. It was Amanda-fit-to-beloved, lying on the sofa staring at the flashing screen, in jeans and a T-shirt. And with her golden hair all the way down to her waist, thick and loose, like fur.

  ‘Hello,’ said Amanda, looking up briefly at them.

  Icara did not stop walking. She kept walking, right through the room, up the stairs, door closed, gone. Cubby stood there helplessly.

  ‘Hello,’ said Cubby.

  Amanda tugged languidly on a silver bracelet around her wrist. At school you weren’t allowed to wear any jewellery, but they were not at school now.

  ‘You’re a friend of Icara’s, aren’t you?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Cubby.

  ‘I’m a family friend,’ said Amanda, and she reached out to change the television channel.

  Cubby went to the hatstand by the front door and picked up her bag. There was no sign of Icara coming down to say goodbye, no sign of anyone. So she opened the door and left by herself. She walked to the bus stop through the lamplit street, past the vines that gripped the high sandstone walls.

  She did not have to wait long. The bus approached with its white blinding eyes. Cubby mounted the steps and the door hissed shut, and she was carried away, into the night.

  FIFTEEN

  Window Shadow

  THE NEXT DAY, AFTER THE MORNING BELL RANG, the little girls were scattered about the classroom, waiting for Miss Summers. Icara sat at her desk, clean, possum-haired, straight-backed. She had a book out and was reading. She didn’t say hello to Cubby or even look at her.

  They heard footsteps.

  ‘Miss Summers is coming!’ called out the shortest Elizabeth.

  The girls ran to stand behind their desks, to be ready as the door opened. Still reading, Icara got to her feet. Miss Summers came in, with a wad of white paper in her arms. But she was not alone. Into the classroom with her came Miss Baskerville.

  The little girls could feel each other quaking. This had never happened before! Miss Baskerville had never been in their classroom. It was such a long way up, after all, four flights of stairs. Why had she come now? It was bad, it could only be bad.

  ‘Good morning, girls,’ said Miss Baskerville.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Baskerville,’ they replied in unison, small, shaking voices.

  ‘Sit down, girls,’ said Miss Baskerville.

  They sat. It must be about Miss Renshaw. Perhaps the police had found her! Miss Renshaw and Morgan must have got lost somehow in that low, dripping cave, but they must have made their way out. Probably Miss Renshaw was too upset to come herself – after all, she would want to have a bath and something to eat first. What else would bring their headmistress up four flights of stairs? Miss Renshaw was back!

  But they didn’t believe it, not a word. They waited.

  Miss Baskerville walked into the middle of the room, coming to a stop in front of the blackboard, slightly bending forward, as though she was making up her mind what to say. She looked so very old. Well, she was old. It was an old world, and every day it grew older.

  ‘Girls,’ said Miss Baskerville, ‘I’ve come up here because I want to speak to you all, alone, separately from the rest of the school.’

  Miss Summers laid her wad of white papers down on the desk and stood next to the half-open window. Outside, the sky was soft with clouds and sunlight.

  ‘I want to speak to you about Miss Renshaw,’ said Miss Baskerville. ‘The police have been to see me.’

  The clouds seemed to move slightly closer, as if they wanted to hear what was being said.

  ‘This is what the police have told me,’ said Miss Basker-ville. ‘Miss Renshaw has been missing for nearly ten days now.

  This is a long time for someone to be missing. When someone has been missing a long time like this, there are a number of things you can think.’

  Miss Baskerville stopped, and started again.

  ‘One is that the person has gone away for some private, personal reason and for that same reason does not tell anyone where they have gone. This is possibly what has happened with Miss Renshaw.’

  Bethany turned and glared triumphantly at Icara. But Icara was reading her book, hidden under her desk.

  ‘The police think it is unlikely that Miss Renshaw would go away without telling anyone, and I must say I agree with them.’

  Wind from the harbour came through the open window.

  Miss Summers put her hand over the ream of white paper on her desk to stop the sheets from blowing away.

  ‘Another reason a person goes missing and no word is heard from them is that they are no longer alive.’

  Miss Summers closed the
window with a screech and a thud.

  ‘It is possible,’ said Miss Baskerville, ‘that Miss Renshaw is no longer alive.’

  Dead.

  ‘Now, I know that is a very upsetting thought. It is very upsetting for you. For all of us.’

  Ah, the tears were streaming.

  ‘When people are upset, there are some things we can do to help us cope. So that is why I have decided we will have a service on Thursday in the chapel.’

  A funeral?

  ‘It is not a funeral,’ said Miss Baskerville. ‘It will be a special kind of service in which we will remember Miss Renshaw and her life in the school. I wanted to tell you little girls first, so that you will be ready for this.Your parents are able to attend as well. There has been a note sent home, giving all these details.’

  Miss Baskerville looked at them, searchingly, as though there was something they could tell her, some knowledge they were wilfully withholding. But mostly she looked sad.

  ‘Now, does anyone have any questions?’

  Obediently, to fill in the space, Georgina put up her hand.

  ‘Do we have to wear our blazers?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Baskerville.

  Cynthia put up her hand.

  ‘What time does it start?’

  ‘The service will begin straight after rollcall,’ said Miss Baskerville.

  Martine put up her hand.

  ‘Can we go home with our parents afterwards? When it’s over?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Miss Baskerville. ‘If your parents speak with Miss Summers before leaving the school grounds.’

  Bethany put up her hand. Her cheeks were very pink, swamped with blood.

  ‘Yes, Bethany?’ said Miss Baskerville.

  ‘I still think Miss Renshaw will come back one day,’ said Bethany simply.

  How quiet the room was. A seagull came to rest on the windowsill just outside. Its beak was bright red, and so were its eyes. It pecked with its beak against the glass.

  ‘I know this is a very sad time,’ said Miss Baskerville, after a pause. ‘Very sad. But the important thing in life is to move forward. That is the best and kindest thing you can do for Miss Renshaw, now, to show her what fine, brave young women you are.’

  The final note came home to their parents, on crisp, white paper, embossed with the school crest.

  Dear parents,

  I am writing to let you know that there will be a memorial service in the chapel for Miss Renshaw this coming Wednesday morning. The service will commence promptly at 9 a.m. and last for approximately 40 minutes. Parents may attend with their daughters, if they wish.

  Yours sincerely,

  (Miss) Emily Baskerville

  Headmistress

  SIXTEEN

  Holding Hands

  IT FELT WRONG TO BE GOING into chapel with parents. Parents shouldn’t be anywhere in the school, really, let alone the chapel. It felt like Speech Day. Not that too many parents ended up coming. When Cubby’s mother read the letter, she blinked and said, Would you like me to come, Cubby? but Cubby shook her head. No, no, she didn’t want anyone to be there. She didn’t want to be there herself.

  But some parents did come. The youngest Elizabeth’s parents came – they were the sorts of parents that came to everything. Martine’s mother came, dressed in a pants suit and with silver-purple hair. Silent Deirdre’s very tall father came.

  And the judge came, with Mrs Ellerman.

  ‘Hello, Cubby,’ said the judge. He nodded solemnly. Mrs Ellerman winked and squeezed Cubby’s shoulder.

  ‘Cheer up, darling, don’t be miserable,’ she said. ‘You can sit with me.’

  I must look miserable, thought Cubby, surprised, because she didn’t feel it. She wanted to, she tried to, but somehow all the dense sadness around her filled up the space, and she found that she had no feelings left.

  ‘Thought I’d come along, you know,’ said Mrs Ellerman.

  ‘Show a bit of support. Dear me.’

  The organ played softly as they filed up the stairs, notes spilling into the open hallways, out from the doors of the chapel. Amanda-fit-to-be-loved, glorious and golden and so very far from death, stood at the entrance as part of her duties as a prefect, passing out hymnbooks. Her hair was tied back and her jewellery hidden or removed. The judge took a book from her and went and sat down, Icara beside him.

  Cubby found herself shepherded along by Mrs Ellerman to the same pew. She hoped Icara didn’t mind her sitting with them. Icara had hardly spoken a word to her, or anyone, really, since that afternoon on the boat. She was always reading, or looking in the other direction. As though she was angry. Cubby tried to catch her eye, but Icara turned her head away.

  ‘You tell me what to do, darling,’ whispered Mrs Ellerman, digging Cubby in the ribs as they sat down. ‘I wouldn’t have a clue.’

  Cubby did not have a clue herself. She had never been to a memorial service before. She had never known anyone that had died, except for Agamemnon, and you don’t have memorial services for guinea pigs.

  ‘These are nice,’ said Mrs Ellerman, pointing to the row of little cushions hung on hooks on the back of the pew in front of them.

  They were kneelers, embroidered by Old Girls of the school. Some were very modest, with simply a cross, or an emblem of one of the school houses. But others were more lavish and Mrs Ellerman-like, showing mysterious biblical animals in strangely bright colours.

  ‘Very nice work,’ said Mrs Ellerman, impressed. ‘What are they for?’

  ‘They’re to kneel on,’ said Cubby, as embarrassed as if Mrs Ellerman was her own mother. ‘You know, when you pray, so you don’t hurt your knees.’

  But Mrs Ellerman drew the line at kneeling.

  ‘With my sciatica? Are you crazy?’

  Amanda-fit-to-be-loved, having finished handing out the hymnbooks, took her place in the pew just in front of them. The music of the organ suddenly changed tempo and became very loud. The Reverend Broome swept into the chapel in his robes, followed by Miss Baskerville and Mrs Arnold. Everyone stood.

  ‘Hymn number 228 in the hymn book,’ said Mr Broome in his usual rousing voice. ‘Let us join together and sing.’

  Jerusalem the golden

  With milk and honey blest,

  Beneath thy contemplation

  Sink heart and voice opprest.

  Cubby sang along as best she could, but it was funny hearing the judge’s deep voice singing next to her. In any case, Mrs Ellerman soon lost concentration, and dug her in the ribs again.

  ‘I like those windows!’

  Obediently, Cubby looked up at the subdued stained-glass image of Jesus surrounded by children, their translucent grey-glass faces and hair the colour of honey, like the amber bead that hung around Miss Renshaw’s neck.

  I know not, oh, I know not

  What joys await me there!

  What radiancy of glory

  What bliss beyond compare!

  ‘Please be seated,’ said the Reverend Broome, when the hymn had finished, and they sat, Miss Baskerville and Mrs Arnold on special seats at the front where everyone could see them and their serious, sad faces.

  Mr Broome stepped over to the lectern. It was in the shape of a wooden eagle with glittering eyes and a curved beak. The big black-and-gold Bible was spread across its wings. Mr Broome read aloud, almost shouting:

  ‘Lo! I tell you a mystery.We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trumpet. For the trumpet will sound, and the dead will be raised imperishable.’

  He looked up from the Bible, and calmly surveyed the room. Then he left the eagle and strode onto the red carpet at the front, swirling across the floor in his white robes like an ancient Roman senator.

  ‘Girls, parents, teachers. I want to speak to you today about Miss Renshaw.’

  ‘About time!’ whispered Mrs Ellerman.

  ‘Miss Renshaw was born in Wangaratta.’

  ‘Ah, a Victorian lass,’ Mr
s Ellerman nodded.

  Was Mrs Ellerman going to keep speaking through the entire sermon? wondered Cubby in desperation.

  ‘Miss Renshaw loved her work,’ continued the Reverend Broome. ‘She was a passionate and committed teacher.’

  ‘She was passionate all right,’ said Mrs Ellerman dryly.

  ‘Hers is a tragedy that has touched our whole school community. A life so rich and promising…’ ‘Promises, promises,’ said Mrs Ellerman to Cubby.

  ‘Sucked down into the bowels of the earth.’

  The judge coughed slightly.

  ‘Bit fruity,’ agreed Mrs Ellerman.

  ‘She was greatly loved by the girls...’

  Bethany began to sob. Mrs Arnold and Miss Baskerville exchanged glances.

  ‘…and greatly appreciated by the staff for her original mind.’

  Mrs Arnold made a sign. Somebody took Bethany out, she was sobbing just too loudly.

  ‘Thank heavens,’ said Mrs Ellerman.

  Miss Baskerville coughed, and moved in her seat. The Reverend Broome subsided. Spent, he returned to his seat and knelt down on his own special kneeler.

  ‘Let us pray,’ said the Reverend Broome.

  Cubby and Icara knelt and bent their heads, but the judge and Mrs Ellerman stayed firmly seated. Prayer followed prayer followed prayer. The Reverend Broome prayed for the girls and for the school and for the government and for the Queen and for anyone else he could think of, it seemed to Cubby, and they knelt together with their eyes closed and listened to Mr Broome’s purring tones until finally it was over.

  The organ started again, almost imperceptibly, like breathing. Everyone stood up. Miss Baskerville and Mrs Arnold went first, out the side entrance, pursued rapidly by Mr Broome.

  ‘Well, as my old dad used to say,’ remarked Mrs Ellerman as they made their way down the aisle to the front entrance, ‘if you’ve read the Bible, nothing in life can possibly surprise you.’

  There was a delay leaving the chapel, as the door was narrow and everyone tried to leave at once. As Cubby squeezed herself into the hallway, Icara sidled up to her.