Where the Fruit Falls

by Karen Wyld

  He tossed the hessian-sack garment at her again. ‘Put it on, or I’ll strip you and do it myself.’

  Brigid began to slip it over her head.

  Von Wolff barked, ‘Don’t just put it over your dress. Take the dress off. And your undergarments.’

  She turned her back to him and did as she was told. While undressing, she saw purple marks appearing on her upper arm, where he’d held her roughly. Her face also smarted. Now wearing only the sack-dress, she turned around slowly. Von Wolff looked her up and down. She’d caught him staring at her before, but not like this. She held her head higher, looking him straight in the eye, defiant despite feeling fearful of his next move.

  ‘Are you even aware of how damn alluring you are?’ he asked, moving closer.

  Brigid shied away, staring at him wide-eyed, nostrils flared.

  ‘You’re like a brown snake, backed into a corner, ready to strike its way out. And that scarring just makes you even more desirable.’

  Von Wolff reached out, and ran a finger along the scars that snaked down Brigid’s neck and along her shoulder. She flinched at his touch and tried to hide her pain as his hand skimmed over her emerging bruises.

  He went over to his camera cabinet and, with his back towards her, said, ‘Keep your head high. I like that.’

  Turning around, he started taking photos. Moving around the room, circling her. She stared back at him stonily. She thought about her daughters, thankful that they would be at school for a few more hours. It’ll be over soon. There’s time to clean myself up before they get home, Brigid thought. And late tonight, we’ll leave here. As the camera flashed, her thoughts drifted to Gabriel and that warm parting hug they’d shared. She ignored von Wolff, instead making overdue plans. Gabriel’s address was on the letters he’d sent her. She would leave, tonight, and go to him.

  Von Wolff put down the camera. ‘Stay.’

  He walked over to the record-player and, selecting a record, put it on the turntable. Brigid listened, letting the music wash over her. Its lyrics were hauntingly sad. Even the tune was sad. Fitting for how she felt right now. Feelings she would not let von Wolff glimpse. He took up the camera again, placing the cord around his neck. He picked up a footstool, grabbed Brigid by an arm, and dragged her out the studio door. Once outside, he placed the footstool under the apple tree that grew next to his studio. The tree had struggled this season, and only a few apples remained. Fruit so unappetising that even the birds had left them alone. The other apples had already fallen and were rotting on the ground. Brigid staggered when he shoved her, landing under the tree. She sat up, brushing leaves and squishy fruit from the side of her body. Her face felt gritty, covered in soil and debris. Von Wolff picked up a thick plaited rope that was lying by the studio door and, coming back to Brigid, made a knot. He then threw one end of the rope over the lowest branch. Using the footstool, he tied it securely to that branch. She frowned, trying to work out what von Wolff was doing.

  ‘Climb up on the stool,’ he ordered.

  Brigid shook her head fervently, and stayed seated on the ground.

  ‘Do as I say, and this will be over soon.’

  She looked up at the rope, staring at the loop dangling above her. She considered running, but knew she’d get no more than a step away before he’d grab her again. Perhaps it was best just to get this over, then return to the cottage and start packing their bags. Her daughters would be home from school soon. They could be ready to make their escape at sunset. Until then, she just had to do what he demanded. Brigid got up, testing the stool with one foot before climbing up. Von Wolff then joined her on the stool. Brigid wriggled as he placed the looped rope around her neck.

  He hit her hard on the back of her shoulder. ‘Stop it. You’ll just make it worse.’

  Trembling now in fear, Brigid did as she was told. He stepped down, took up his camera and started to take photos. She kept very still, so as not to upset the stool she stood on. In her peripheral vision, she noticed a stunted apple hanging near her head. The rainbow finches that Maggie loved so much were flitting around in the branches of the tree. Looking upwards, she saw a solitary raven on an upper branch. Only one, not three, she thought with relief.

  ‘Look directly at the camera.’

  Brigid turned away, refusing to look at him. She saw a second raven land on a branch.

  Von Wolff didn’t notice the bird; he was too focused on Brigid. ‘Your bronze skin, those dark-brown eyes. Your race might be flawed, but some of you can be attractive.’

  Brigid still refused to acknowledge his presence, and pulled the rope away from her neck, scratching where it was irritating her skin.

  ‘Put your hand down,’ he commanded. ‘I’ve often wondered what it is about you that makes you so interesting. You give the impression of being uncomfortable with your own body. Not the scars. Something else. As if even you reject your own skin.’

  Brigid suddenly recalled a conversation from long ago. You don’t accept your own blackness, Daniel had pronounced that day they fought. Brigid had no reply for him, all those years ago. Just a shrug. She had no idea what to say. After all, she was just a potato. A dirty potato. No more, no less. She now vividly remembered what Daniel had verbalised next: If you can’t love your own blackness, how can you ever really love me? Much as she’d tried, Brigid hadn’t forgotten the look of hurt on Daniel’s face as he’d said that. She had carried the guilt of being the cause of his pain though the red desert, across rocky plains, among the spinifex, over ridges of various sizes and along the streets of country towns. She had carried it here, to this apple tree.

  Von Wolff interrupted her thoughts. ‘This isn’t real enough.’

  The jolt as he kicked the footstool from under her feet shocked her into movement. Her feet running in air, searching for a foothold. Looking around, it was if time had slowed. Finches were suspended in midair, wings flapping in slow motion. That lone apple near her head was falling, microsecond by microsecond, towards the ground. Brigid could hear the record still playing; the same lyrics over and over, as if the needle was stuck in a groove: strange and bitter crop strange and bitter strange and strange. Sensing something slip away, she looked down and noticed a flash of silver among the rotting apples on the ground. Placing a hand on her chest, Brigid realised her necklace was gone. Her grandmother’s silver-encrusted apple seed now lay on the ground.

  Granny, Brigid thought, you were wrong. I’m not a dirt-encrusted potato.

  An image of Granny Maeve appeared, floating among the finches: You’re my little potato, Birdie.

  No, Granny. This is me, in this skin. You were ashamed and tried to wash my blackness away. I cherished those family stories you told me, but there were gaps. None of those stories could reconnect me to Country, or the kin you and Mother didn’t tell me of. None of those stories gave me the strength to stand against hate, and to be proud of my identity.

  I kept secrets to protect you, Birdie. I do love you, forever.

  I know you loved me, thought Brigid.

  The image of her grandmother was replaced by Nana Vic. Brigid’s nana smiled at her, and she felt a warmth spread throughout her body. Brigid noticed bright flashes before her eyes. Von Wolff was still taking photos, an eerie grin on his face. She pictured her daughters running towards her: toddlers, girls, teenagers. A single tear fell. Brigid knew she’d never see them become women.

  Don’t be afraid, said Nana Vic. Your father is here to catch you. Grandfather Albert is here too. We’ll show you the way. Brigid looked at the tree again. It had changed form; parts of it were still an apple tree, like the ones that grew in her family’s orchard, entwined with a bloodwood tree. Brigid thought of that tree her nana had shown her, near the rockpool. She noticed a bush coconut now hung on a branch next to her.

  Tears streaking through the dirt on her face, Brigid felt as if she could no longer breathe. The finches that had been interrupted by the slowing of time began to dart around. As they flew away, another raven landed
in the apple tree. Now there were three large black birds acting as witnesses. Brigid heard a chorus of cherished voices: Come on, Brigid, it’s time to go.

  ELEVEN

  From inside the cottage, Maggie saw the birds again. Three large black birds perched in the nearest gum tree.

  She remarked, ‘Did you know they’re not really crows?’

  Victoria shook her head and climbed into bed, even though it was only early afternoon.

  ‘People call them crows but they’re actually little ravens.’

  ‘How was school today?’ asked Victoria, uninterested in birds.

  ‘It was okay, I guess. I hate going without you. Is he very mean to you?’

  Victoria turned her head towards the wall. Not before Maggie had seen tears forming in her eyes. Maggie went over to the bed and climbed in. She put her arm around her sister’s shoulder, and they lay in silence.

  ‘I don’t believe she left us. He’s lying,’ whispered Maggie.

  Victoria nodded. ‘She would never.’

  ‘I don’t want to do this any more. I hate posing for him.’

  Von Wolff turned around. ‘Stop talking. Or I’ll send you to that orphanage, and they will not be as tolerant as I am. Sister Marie locks disobedient children in a cage for days, without even a sip of water.’

  They reached for each other’s hands, and held on tightly. Victoria glanced over at the photos of them hanging from string along one of the walls. She hated them. Almost as much as she hated von Wolff. On display at the moment were the photos from when he’d made her wear nothing but a small cloth around her waist, while Maggie was outfitted in a fine lady’s dress from a bygone era. Victoria had been made to hold a spear, one foot resting on her other thigh. She’d felt like one of those herons down at the dam, standing on one leg, without the dignity they possess. Von Wolff had then made her stand over Maggie, who was on the ground, pretending to have fainted. Later, Victoria cried late into the night, with Maggie beside her in bed, softly singing lullabies until she fell asleep. A week later, it was Victoria who comforted Maggie, with stories, until she fell asleep. That day, Maggie had been made to dress in men’s clothing. A white linen shirt and pants, and a pith helmet. Von Wolff had shoved a pipe in Maggie’s mouth, then made her hold a rifle in one hand and a thick chain in the other. The chain was attached to the neck of her sister, who was, once again, semi-clad. The photos were always developed in black and white. Depicting the twins as a caricature of black and white.

  ‘The way he makes us pose, that’s not who we are,’ Maggie had sobbed that night. ‘I would never hurt you, ever. I hate him so much.’

  In the stone cottage, which was the furthest from von Wolff they both could get, every night Victoria and Maggie wished for Gabriel to return. They believed he would help them find their mother. She would not have left them willingly. They knew that with all their heart.

  ‘He’s back,’ announced Maggie, as she walked into the cottage.

  Victoria got up off the bed, quickly pulling her dress down over her thighs.

  ‘What’s that, Victoria?’

  ‘Nothing. I got scratched when walking too close to the rosebushes up at the house.’

  Maggie frowned, sure her sister was not telling the truth. She pictured the cane that had recently appeared in von Wolff ’s studio.

  ‘Did he use the stick again?’

  ‘Who’s back?’ said Victoria, as if she’d not heard Maggie’s question.

  ‘Gabriel.’

  Victoria smiled. At least, it appeared to be a smile. Maggie had not seen her sister smile for some time. Maggie felt guilty. At least she could still go to school, even if under strict instructions about what she could and couldn’t say. While Victoria went nowhere. She cleaned von Wolff ’s house and cooked his meals, and was forced to participate in photo sessions in the studio on weekends. The rest of her time was spent in the cottage. She was not permitted to leave the property.

  Victoria lifted the lid of a pot on the stove, picked up a wooden spoon and stirred. Maggie fetched two plates, and watched as Victoria served the stew. Looking at bits of meat and vegetable clump onto her plate, Maggie instinctively winced. Victoria tried her best but she wasn’t a good cook. Not like their mother. Maggie knew that von Wolff also disliked her sister’s cooking. Sometimes Victoria would come back to the cottage, after serving his dinner, with a bright-red mark across a cheek. Maggie knew not to ask. Instead, she’d silently fetch a cool cloth and gently wipe Victoria’s face before applying lanolin.

  ‘Gabriel can help us,’ Maggie asserted.

  Victoria shrugged, then sat at the table. They both ate in silence.

  Maggie put their plates in the sink. ‘The rainbow birds have gone. So have those ravens.’

  ‘I noticed,’ replied Victoria.

  ‘Victoria, he’s back. He can help us find Mumma.’

  ‘It’s too late. She’s gone.’

  ‘Don’t say that. I’m going to talk to Gabriel tomorrow. I’ll stop off at the timber yard after school.’

  ‘It’s too risky. Von Wolff might notice you’re late and get angry.’

  ‘I’ll be extra careful, because I know he’d probably take it out on you. He never raises a hand to me.’

  ‘Don’t speak about it, Maggie. Please.’

  Victoria recognised the truck parked near von Wolff ’s studio. It was the one from the timber yard. Gabriel had borrowed it from his boss a few times, to give them lifts home from town. Removing another bedsheet from the line, Victoria squinted, trying to see who was unloading wood from the truck. A man turned around, catching her gaze. Gabriel. He began to walk over, before she waved him back. He stopped, immediately understanding. He returned to his work, and she to hers. Later that day, as the sun set, Victoria and Maggie were pulling in the yabby pots at the dam. They heard a whistle and looked over towards some nearby bushes.

  ‘Wait here,’ said Victoria, as she ran towards the sound.

  A few minutes later she returned. ‘It’s Gabriel. Just letting us know he’ll see us at the cottage later tonight, when it’s safer.’

  They heard a soft rap on the window by their bed. They threw off the bedcovers, both fully dressed. Victoria opened the door, and Gabriel slid into the darkened cottage. He seemed to fill the room. She had forgotten how tall he was. Stefan was a small man in comparison. Victoria remembered Omer as a large man, able to fill a room with his infectious laughter, but Gabriel was taller. Maggie lit one candle, and placed it on the table. In the shadows, Victoria put the kettle on. Maggie fetched mugs, and soon they were all seated at the table. Gabriel studied the twins’ trusting faces and felt a pang of sadness. He wasn’t sure if he should tell them now or later. Perhaps later would be best. Gabriel was still coming to terms with his recent discovery. Von Wolff hadn’t even bothered to make a proper resting place, so it had not taken Gabriel long to find her a few hours earlier. He’d made sure Brigid was respectfully laid to rest, on the other side of the dam, before coming over to the cottage. Gabriel was trying to mask his feelings. The grief of finding Brigid was compounded by the horror he’d felt when realising the cause of her death. He had no idea how to tell Victoria and Maggie. Looking at their faces, he knew the last couple of months had not been easy for them. He decided to tell them later. First, he had to ensure their safety.

  Gabriel put down his cup of tea. ‘Can you be ready to leave this time tomorrow night?’

  Maggie insisted, ‘Our mumma is coming back, to get us. We have to wait here.’

  ‘She’s not coming back,’ said Victoria. ‘Is she, Gabriel?’

  He met Victoria’s eye, realising she needed to hear the truth. ‘No. She’s gone on.’

  ‘You mean dead?’

  Gabriel nodded. Maggie started to cry and Victoria put an arm around her shoulders. She waited until the sobs subsided, then helped her sister into bed. Gabriel watched her, a lump in his chest. She’d changed since he saw her last. Beyond the sorrow was something else. Gabriel berated hi
mself for not insisting that Brigid and the twins leave with him. He could not have prevented his niece and nephews being orphaned, but he did blame himself for the twins losing their mother. He should not have waited so long to return. Victoria had always reminded him of Brigid. Now Victoria’s eyes reminded him of that resigned look Brigid had when he’d first met her, a look that had slowly dissolved as they got to know each other.

  Gabriel’s shoulders slumped as he remembered that he’d never see Brigid again. Then he sat up straight, resolving to put thoughts of her aside for now. He knew now was not his time to grieve. He had to help these young ones. Get them away from von Wolff. Gabriel had gone into the studio earlier, when he was delivering timber, and seen those photos. Grotesque photos hanging on string throughout the studio. And he had seen the way his boss, Tony Bolt, had leered at those lurid images. When they’d dropped in at the pub on the way back to town, Gabriel had heard Bolt telling an out-of-uniform Constable Peters about the photos. Peters replied he’d already seen them, many times. Peters and Bolt shared their sudden appreciation for the arts over a few beers. Feeling sickened from overhearing some of this conversation, Gabriel resolved to get Victoria and Maggie far away from men like them. And away from von Wolff.

  ‘You need to be ready to leave tomorrow night, Victoria,’ he said when she returned to the table.

  She nodded. ‘I’ll pack tonight. It’s his card night tomorrow, so his mates will all be here, drinking.’

  ‘Good,’ said Gabriel.

  ‘Not good. They’re loud and scary when they drink. And von Wolff, if he hasn’t passed out by the time his friends leave, gets angrier. We hear him shouting, breaking things, late at night. Making a bigger mess for me to clean up the next day. I worry that one day he’ll make his way over here, to the cottage. I’m not a child any more. I’m thirteen now. I know things. I’m not sure I can protect Maggie if he tries anything.’