Where the Fruit Falls

by Karen Wyld

  ‘Get in. We’ll wait here until it’s safe.’

  Once they were settled on the wide back seat, Brigid shut the door softly, and climbed in the front seat.

  Victoria asked, ‘Are we hiding from the police? I know she called them.’

  Brigid nodded. ‘Just remember, we did nothing wrong. It’s not us that’s wrong. It’s people like Mrs Smythe and Mrs Parsons, and that coach driver. Anyone who thinks we’re less than them.’

  ‘I hate them all,’ declared Victoria.

  ‘Hate isn’t the answer. Keep believing you are not less than them. No one is less human than anyone else, no matter the colour of their skin.’

  Maggie whimpered, ‘What will the police do if they find us? Will they throw us in the back of a truck and take us away from you?’

  ‘No one will ever take you from me. I’m here, by your side, and always will be. Would you like to hear a story?’

  Brigid shared some of Granny Maeve’s tales, until the girls fell asleep. They loved hearing those stories. The only tale she would never tell them was the one about little dirt-encrusted potatoes.

  A few hours later, Brigid shook them awake, whispering it was safe to leave. They gathered their belongings, and crept outside. Maggie froze when she heard a dog barking.

  ‘It’s okay, it’s not nearby,’ whispered Brigid.

  They walked down the highway, with only starlight to see by. After a while, Brigid led them away from the road. The girls were tired, no longer used to walking long distances. Finding a sheltered spot, Brigid collected kindling. She lit a small fire and put the billy on. She cut up the onion and potatoes and added them to a metal-handled saucepan full of water. Once the pan was steaming, she opened the canned meat and cut it into cubes before adding it. She spooned the stew onto metal plates and handed one to each daughter. They ate in silence, starring into the fire. Brigid noticed Maggie’s eyes drooping, so she spread out their blankets by the fire, took the plate from Maggie, and told her to lie down. Victoria quickly joined her sister. After cleaning up, Brigid snuggled between Maggie and the fire, protecting her from rolling too close in her sleep. As the fire crackled, Brigid drifted off.

  Brigid dreamt. Not the dreams of a contented person. Not the dreams of a woman sleeping soundly in a warm bed, in a nice house, perhaps a husband by her side. She dreamt the dream of an outcast. And she lived out her deepest fears within this dream. A sharp-faced version of Mrs Smythe held Victoria by an ear, wiggling her in the air. Her daughter became a long-eared hopping mouse, frantically trying to break free. Brigid ran towards her daughter, but the ground felt like thick custard. Slowly, slowly, she got closer. And then she heard a scream. Looking back, she saw Maggie in the arms of a grotesquely oversized Mrs Parsons. This monster-woman had put a pink baby bonnet on Maggie’s head, and was trying to shove her in into a tiny doll’s pram. Brigid was torn – which daughter to save first?

  ‘You need to save yourself first, sis.’

  ‘Wake up. You need to wake up.’

  Brigid was confused. Those voices sounded just like the women she’d met that time, walking home from Isabelle’s camp. The seven women who looked like sisters. What were they doing here?

  ‘Sister, sister, you’re on fire.’

  Brigid suddenly felt a burning heat, and opened her eyes in panic. She smelt burning wool before she saw the flames. And then she felt the heat. The shoulder of her coat was on fire. She could not roll forward to extinguish it, as the campfire was there. She could not roll backwards because, as far as she knew, her daughters lay sleeping there. Brigid screamed in pain and began to panic. Then she jumped in shock as the coldness of water hit her. Victoria stood above her, an empty pan in her hand. Maggie was sobbing, while holding a billy full of water. Brigid lost consciousness before water hit her a second time.

  She was still unconscious when two men lifted her carefully, having made a carrier from the blankets, and placed her gently on the back seat of their car. Victoria had flagged them down, after walking back to the highway on her own, while Maggie waited by their mother’s side. The men promised that it would be okay; there was a country hospital in the next town. One of them offered the girls some boiled lollies and sips of his cola. It was a long drive, and Brigid murmured in pain every time the car hit a bump.

  Maggie held her hand, whispering, ‘It will be all right. These people are nice ones.’

  Victoria half-heartedly watched the passing landscape, wondering if it really was possible to know if a stranger was nice. Or did every one of them harbour hatred for people who looked like her?

  ‘Listen and you’ll hear the waves,’ that old woman said, as she placed a wind-hardened black hand on a sun-kissed brown cheek.

  The girl squinted, trying with all her might to hear this ocean that flowed under her feet. Disappointed, she shook her head.

  Isabelle put her other hand against Victoria’s other cheek, gently cupping her face. ‘Don’t try so hard. Everything is as it should be.’

  Loosening the tightness in her shoulders, Victoria tried again, but the earth’s secret waters still lay hidden. She then wriggled her toes, letting them burrow like grubs into sun-warmed dirt. It felt good. Her mind began to wander.

  The girl gasped and opened her eyes wide, blue eyes catching ancient brown eyes.

  ‘I did it. I heard those waves,’ she cried.

  ‘Well, close your eyes again, child. And dive right in.’

  NINE

  The sun had long set when Samuel Bond turned off the road and up a narrow driveway. Brigid wound down the window and peered out, into the darkness. She saw a light, and then a house. Just as the motor fell silent, the front door of the house opened, revealing a tiny woman.

  ‘What are you doing up? Leave it alone, I can handle this,’ came a voice from behind the woman.

  ‘I’m fine, really. I’m still quite capable of welcoming visitors to my house.’

  ‘They’re not visitors. She’s the domestic. If you can’t remember that, how are you going to keep her and those piccaninnies in their place?’

  Brigid flinched, and hoped her daughters did not understand what the man had said. As it was, the journey had been most unpleasant. And not because the car interior had been cramped. Samuel Bond had made it clear, in no uncertain terms, that they talk only when necessary. And, if they must talk to him, he was to be addressed as Mr Bond. He was only escorting Brigid and her daughters because his younger sister, Grace Small, the only person for whom he felt anything close to affection, had asked him to. Like his parents, grandparents and great-grandparents, Samuel’s preference was not to get too close to people like Brigid. At gatherings of like-minded folk, he would often remind everyone that in his great-grandparents’ day the natives knew their place and always obeyed the master’s orders. Samuel Bond was adamant that both parties could still benefit from such an arrangement. Which is why he volunteered to be a board member of the St Benedict School for Inland Children, which took boys to be trained as labourers in the city. When he had learnt that his sister had given Brigid and her daughters shelter, he’d strongly expressed his concerns. If driving them to the von Wolff ’s meant they were out of his sister’s life, then that was a sacrifice he’d been prepared to make. After spending the past two days with him, Brigid was looking forward to never seeing him again. So she was relieved to be finally at their destination.

  Brigid presumed the couple on the verandah were the von Wolffs, of whom she knew little. She helped her daughters out of the car, while Samuel went to shake the other man’s hand. Maggie rubbed her eyes, leaning closer to her mother, while Victoria took in the latest strangers with whom they would be living. The man was still partially in the shadows, which contributed to his ominous aura. He didn’t seem pleased to see them, and Victoria thought this might be due to the lateness of their arrival. Or perhaps concern for his wife. Brigid had explained to her daughters that the woman they were going to live with was ill. She had cancer and needed looking after. Also, b
ecause her husband was a well-known artist, they must be very well behaved and never disturb him when he was working. Victoria observed the woman standing in the doorway, who was surround by a soft glow from inside the house. Not only was she tiny, it was if she was shrinking in on herself.

  Looking loftily down upon Brigid and her daughters, the man remarked to Bond, ‘I’m not sure this one will do. And those sprogs look like trouble.’

  ‘Stop that nonsense, Stefan. You’ll scare her off,’ the woman said, before addressing the new arrivals. ‘Don’t mind my husband, his bark is worse than his bite. Please call me Iris. I won’t have any formalities around here. I want you all to feel at home.’

  Brigid smiled. ‘Thank you, Iris.’

  Iris turned to her husband. ‘Show Brigid where they’ll be staying. It’s late, and I’m sure the little ones are eager for bed.’

  Von Wolff grunted as he went inside. He returned with an oil lantern and walked down the steps.

  Iris said, ‘We’ve set up the workers’ cottage for you. It’s old but comfortable. Unfortunately, the cottage doesn’t have electricity connected. You’ll find a lantern on the table, and plenty of candles. The wood oven was lit earlier, that should provide some warmth tonight. And if you’re needing supper, you’ll find milk, tea, bread and such in the cupboard. In future, you’re welcome to join us for meals in the house. If you’ll excuse me, I must return to my bed.’

  Brigid thanked Iris and, after removing their luggage from the car, curtly bade Mr Bond goodbye. Victoria shouldered the new bag that Grace had given her, glad to no longer be toting around tatty old suitcases. She then relieved her mother of Maggie’s bag; her sister was much too tired to carry anything but herself. They followed von Wolff, who’d walked so far ahead with the lantern that he was just a small dot of light in the distance. Soon they were at the front door of a run-down stone cottage.

  They stepped hesitantly over the threshold. Von Wolff had placed the lantern on the table. Ignoring him, Brigid glanced around her latest accommodation. Iris was right, the house was comfortable. Compared to many of the places they had slept in over the years, it was almost luxurious. The fire from the stove had made the room quite toasty, and both the beds looked inviting.

  As the girls went over to lie on one of the beds, von Wolff grabbed Brigid’s arm. ‘I won’t have you upsetting my wife, so I’ll say this clearly: you must not think you can ever be familiar towards her. You are here to cook, clean and tend to her personal needs. Other than that, you stay in here. You will eat in here, and never with us. And make sure those brats of yours are always kept quiet and never go near my studio. I must have silence when I am working. You will start work at six every day, no exceptions, and you are done when I say so. Not before. If you work hard, I might allow you to have two Sundays off every month. Do you understand?’

  Even though she was very uncomfortable with her new employer’s behaviour, Brigid nodded. She pulled her arm away and, to hide her indignation, lit the lantern and candles that had been left on the wooden table. She placed them around the room, to chase away whatever lurked in the shadows. She noticed von Wolff watching her and almost shivered as he stepped closer.

  ‘What happened to your face?’

  Brigid’s hand reflexively moved to her cheek, as if she could hide the scars.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘A campfire accident,’ she mumbled.

  ‘Pity. I expect you were somewhat attractive before. Now you are not. Still, you could be a fascinating subject to photograph.

  What with your colouring and those defiant eyes embedded in such a grotesque face.’

  Brigid flinched and looked towards her daughters. She was relieved to see them heads close, whispering and giggling, seemingly in a world of their own.

  ‘Mr von Wolff, with all due respect, I’m here to do the housework. Not model.’

  ‘You are far too uppity for your own good. You will need to learn to curb that tongue.’

  And with that he went, leaving the door banging in the wind. Brigid shut it and put the inside latch on, wondering if she’d made the right decision. Wearily, she asked Victoria and Maggie if they wanted supper. They replied they were much too tired, so Brigid added wood to the stove as the girls climbed under the bedcovers. Too tired even for a story, they quickly drifted off to sleep. Brigid made herself a cup of tea. As she sat down at the table, she heard Samuel Bond drive off. That was one person she’d be happy to never encounter again. He was so unlike his sister, Grace Small.

  Brigid reflected on the past few months. Some points she remembered clearly, others she had pieced together from what people told her. People such as Grace Small. Widowed while young, Grace had inherited her husband’s considerable wealth and property. She took her position in the community seriously. She was a patron for many local services, including the small country hospital Brigid had been taken to after the accident.

  Walking through the women’s ward the day after Brigid arrived, Grace had heard a woman wrapped in bandages muttering about children. When Grace asked the matron if that patient’s children had been visiting, she replied the woman had arrived on her own. No one knew who she was; she’d been found on the side of the road. Then a cleaner piped up, recalling there had been two girls with the men who brought the woman in. The matron ordered everyone to search the hospital. A young nurse finally found Victoria and Maggie huddled behind a club chair in the corner of the waiting room, where they’d been left the day before.

  The matron had no idea what to do with them, and thought it best to call the Protector of Aborigines. Grace convinced her not to and took charge. She sat the girls down, and over hot chocolate found out what had happened. The girls refused to tell Grace their surname, and seemed wary of talking much about themselves or family. Their focus was solely on their mother: when could they see her; would she be okay; did it hurt much? Grace had no experience with children, so she asked the Johnsons, a middle-aged couple who had raised six children of their own, to look after the girls while Brigid was in hospital. Mrs Johnson brought them to the hospital every day to see their mother, and soothed the girls’ worries with freshly baked biscuits and plenty of kindness. When the matron thought Brigid was well enough to vacate the bed, Grace stepped in again, inviting Brigid to stay in her unused servants’ quarters. Grace enjoyed having company, as her late husband’s manor had felt so big and empty since he’d died. So, a week later, Grace agreed to the twins moving in too.

  Sipping tea while appreciating the heat from the wood stove, Brigid recalled those three months at the manor as she slowly recovered her strength. She’d also gathered the courage to look in a mirror. At first, Brigid had not recognised the woman who stared wearily back at her. Not because of the scars that covered one side of her face, snaking down her neck, onto her left shoulder and arm. It was her eyes. Dull. Full of sorrow.

  While still in hospital, Brigid had phoned home, trembling fingers remembering the numbers to dial. An unrecognisable voice came on the other end. Patrick, Brigid’s youngest brother, now had a surprisingly deep voice. She quickly realised he was not receptive to her call. He refused to get their mother and, instead, firmly told Brigid to stay away. It was not for lack of room that Patrick told her to never return. Her baby brother was now a young man with too much ambition, and he had set his sights on a political career. Patrick bluntly told his sister that a re-emergence of the family shame would ruin his chances of being elected. Brigid had been gone so long that neighbours had forgotten the little brown girl who once played in the family orchard. Patrick wanted to make sure they never remembered.

  Maggie stirred, pulling the blanket off Victoria as she rolled over. Brigid got up and tucked them both in. Sitting back down, she recalled how hurt she’d been after that phone call. She’d heard hateful words before, in the schoolyard as a child and while travelling through small towns, but never from her own family. She decided never to go home. If Patrick was ashamed of her, then she didn’t want her girls aro
und him.

  A few months after they’d moved in, Grace accepted a proposal of marriage, after a whirlwind romance. Brigid knew it was time for her and the girls to move on. When Grace told Brigid about a live-in carer role, looking after an old schoolfriend, Brigid had immediately shown interest.

  She was now regretting that choice. She already knew von Wolff to be an unwelcoming man. A man who would not tolerate noise, was overly judgemental and much too forward. Despite what Iris had told her, Brigid believed that von Wolff ’s bite would be far worse than his bark. She put her cup in the sink, then extinguished the candles and lantern. Climbing into the second bed, she shivered and pulled up the covers. That shiver, which had wedged itself under her heart the day she’d bid farewell to Bethel, was now making itself known. Brigid closed her eyes, trying to shut out feelings of apprehension and dread. Lulled to sleep by a gentle wind that blew past the cottage, soon Brigid was dreaming of walking barefoot across stony ground, in the company of seven chortling women.

  It took Maggie a few moments to work out where she was. She sat up and looked out the small window next to the bed. Victoria and Brigid were still sleeping, so she sat for a while, becoming acquainted with yet another new place. It appeared to be quite different from anywhere she’d been before. This location was so green. She could see rolling fields, with a scattering of trees. There were even wildflowers hiding in long, green grasses. She saw a large tree-fringed dam in the distance, with a short pier in a state of disrepair. Maggie then noticed the little birds flitting about. Tiny, chirping rainbows. She felt a strong urge to venture out on her own, something she’d never been game to do before. She paused, hearing a sound behind her. Her sister flipped back the bedcovers, and stretched her arms.

  ‘There are pretty little birds outside our new house,’ shared Maggie excitedly.