‘Betty. She came to say goodbye.’
‘She did? It’s not like you’re going on a world cruise or something. That kid’s thick in the head. Like the rest of her mob.’
Sissy was quick to defend her friend. ‘No, she’s not, Mum. There’s nothing wrong with Betty.’
‘If that’s the case, I’m raising a genius.’
Miriam lit a cigarette and sat on the verandah step, waiting for the stranger’s car to arrive.
When Sissy had presented her mother with the letter of invitation from the church Miriam had not been as excited about the news as her daughter expected she would be. Nor did she try hiding her concerns about Sissy going off with a person neither of them had set eyes on.
‘We don’t know who these people are, Sissy. Or anything about them. Who are they?’
‘Sister Mary knows them. She told me that the people who offer holidays are all good families.’
‘But does she know them personally? What’s written on a piece of paper doesn’t mean a thing. One word is all you need to tell a lie.’
‘Well, Sister Mary said she is going to come around and talk to you herself. They’ve had children for holidays before. If they were not good people then Sister Mary would know about it. There’s nothing she doesn’t know, Betty says.’
‘Betty doesn’t know a whole lot herself. If I ever come to rely on that kid for the safety of my own daughter I’ll throw the towel in and let the Welfare take you off my hands.’
Miriam was even more nervous after reading the letter. She twirled a length of Sissy’s fringe around her finger and tucked it behind her daughter’s ear.
‘So you want to go off with this family?’
‘Not if you don’t want me to. I can stay here as well.’
Miriam had seen the excitement in Sissy’s eyes and didn’t want to disappoint her.
‘You go, little Sis, and have a wonderful time.’
*
Tucked into the pocket of Sissy’s floral dress was a telephone number and a sixpence coin that Miriam insisted her daughter take with her. Sissy was not to spend the money, under any circumstances, she had been told several times. Miriam explained that the coin was only to be used for an emergency. The telephone number was for Mrs Pellegrino, the Italian woman who ran the corner shop, who was happy to take messages for locals.
‘I won’t need the money,’ Sissy said. ‘I bet the family will have their own telephone. Sister Mary said that they are well off.’
A car turned into the street, a rare occurrence in the neighbourhood. A couple of boys who’d been playing with a rusting three-wheeler bike chased the car as it slowly moved down the road. Miriam dropped her cigarette and ground it under the heel of her shoe. The car stopped in front of their house, a powder blue sedan that shined like new. It was a small car, Sissy noticed, a two-door without a back seat. Few people on the street owned a car and Sissy had never ridden in one. She raised herself slightly out of her seat to catch a glimpse of the driver. The passenger side window was so clean and shining all she could see was her mother’s apprehensive olive-skinned face reflected back to her.
The car door opened and a woman got out. Although it was a hot morning she wore a mauve-coloured woollen suit and a straw hat with matching mauve flowers sewn into the brim, shading her pale skin. She was so white Miriam was certain the lady was ill. The woman walked around to the front of the car but remained on the road. Miriam stepped onto the footpath and half curtsied before realising the stupidity of her action.
‘I’m Miriam Hall, Sissy’s mother.’ She turned to the verandah. ‘Sissy,’ she called. Sissy refused to move from the chair. ‘Come and say hello to Mrs …’
The woman stepped forward and held out her hand. Miriam looked down at a set of manicured and polished fingernails.
‘I am Mrs Coleman.’ The woman spoke in a tone simultaneously husky and delicate, in a voice that appeared it might shatter at any moment. ‘And this must be your daughter.’
Sissy stared at the sickly-looking woman standing in front of the car.
‘Come here and say hello,’ Miriam ordered her daughter.
Sissy stood up. ‘Hello,’ she coughed.
The pair of wayward kids on the trike circled the car several times before Miriam ordered them to get back to their own place. She did her best to be polite to her visitor, all the while resenting the self-conscious deference she displayed towards a person she did not know or care for. Sissy felt the shame of being both embarrassed of, and for, her mother.
After assuring Miriam that Sissy will be taken wonderful care of, Mrs Coleman opened the small boot at the rear of her car and stood back as Miriam loaded Sissy’s case into the boot. Sissy could not take her eyes off the woman’s face. Her skin was so transparent that lines of thin veins could be seen running down her cheekbones.
When it was time to say goodbye Miriam did so with as little display of emotion as was necessary. She nudged Sissy towards the open passenger door.
‘Go on, bub. You be off.’
Sissy only relented and got into the car when Miriam stepped away from her daughter and retreated to the verandah.
‘Go,’ she said, with the wave of a hand. ‘Off you go.’
It was only after she had buckled herself into the passenger seat and was driving away, seated next to the cold-looking woman in the funny hat, that Sissy grasped the reality of what she’d wished for so desperately weeks earlier. She turned her head and looked back at her mother, standing on the verandah with a hand to her mouth. The car turned the corner, out of the street, and stopped at a red light at the intersection. The corner was crowded with people, many of whom would never take a holiday to the coast, the mountains, or anywhere else. Some would never leave the suburb. Mrs Coleman leaned forward and peered out of the spotlessly clean front windscreen at the crowd. Sissy watched her face. The woman appeared to be in shock. She pushed the button down on the driver’s side door, then turned to Sissy and ordered her to do the same.
‘Lock your door, dear,’ she said, her voice rising slightly.
Sissy turned to lock her own door and spotted Betty standing on the street corner, staring at her.
‘Lock the door,’ Mrs Coleman repeated, her voice crackling like a poorly tuned radio station.
As the light turned green Betty smiled at Sissy and shook her head up and down. The car lurched forward, braked suddenly and stalled. An elderly man had walked in front of the car. Sissy grabbed the doorhandle and jumped from the car before Mrs Coleman realised what was happening. Sissy bolted past Betty, screaming, ‘Come on, you slow coach, come on.’ Betty had always been the faster runner of the two girls. She drew alongside her friend within a block.
‘Where we running to, bub?’
‘I don’t know,’ Sissy gasped, ‘I’m just running.’
‘Come with me then, and hide.’
Betty took off and Sissy followed. They didn’t stop running until they reached the local football ground several streets away. Sissy followed Betty behind the old grandstand at the far end of the oval. They crawled on their hands and knees into the darkness beneath. Betty climbed into the stand’s wooden framework, followed by Sissy. They gathered their breath.
‘You’re going to be in such big trouble,’ Betty said. ‘Sister Mary will kill you.’
‘She sure will. I don’t care.’
‘And your mum, she will probably kill you, too. After Sister Mary’s finished with you.’
‘No, she won’t. My mum didn’t want me to go on the holiday in the first place.’
‘You sure of that? I thought you said she was happy for you to go?’
‘She was only trying to be happy. It wasn’t working. You know them worry lines she has above her eyes? Well, they were bulging out of her head today. I’ve never seen them worse. It was a sign.’
Betty grinned, as wide as a girl could.
‘Well, even if Sister does kill you, I’ll still be happy that you never went away in that car.’
‘The car! Oh bugger,’ Sissy said. ‘My case is in the boot. I’ll never get it back now.’
‘Did it have anything good in it?’
‘Yeah. My dresses and some books. And, hey! New undies and socks. I mean brand new underpants from the Junior Shop.’
‘New undies!’ Betty squealed. ‘I wish I had a pair of new undies, instead of wearing my mum’s bloomers.’
‘Me too.’ Sissy laughed. ‘But it’s too late now. And it doesn’t matter.’
‘Why’s that?’ Betty asked.
‘Because I’m home, Betty. I’m home with you.’
‘I knew you wouldn’t go off with a strange lady.’
‘No, you didn’t.’
‘I did so.’
Sissy climbed down, sat in the dirt and looked up at her friend.
‘Tell me the truth. Did your cousin Valda really disappear when she went on a holiday?’
‘Of course she did.’ Betty jumped and landed next to Sissy. ‘She disappeared for a week. She ran away and showed up back on my auntie’s doorstep.’
‘You never told me that part of the story.’
‘No, I didn’t. It was better to concentrate on the best part. That’s how stories work.’
Barren Ground
Verity Borthwick
The wheel rumbled over a piece of road kill. Ruth glanced in the rear-view mirror, but all that remained was matted flesh and fur.
She angled the mirror to check on her husband. Slumped in the back seat, head lolling with the motion of the ute, his eyes half-closed, slitted in that way that made her feel he was watching her – even when he slept.
‘You right back there?’
He grunted in reply. She changed gear, the clutch creaked.
She’d take the dam road – it was faster. But the first rains had already come; the monsoonal trough boiled up over the gulf and burst rain that fell in great sheets over the dry brush and made small, green things grow. What if the road was flooded?
Peter vomited. The acrid stench made her bile rise. He’d thrown up down the front of his shirt. She should stop. Clean him up. She’d done it before, more than once. But those were minutes they didn’t have – she had hours to drive. She wound down the window and gulped fresh air.
The atmosphere was thick with humidity, that soupy feeling before a storm. The afternoon light had gone a strange, golden colour. Black clouds bunched on the horizon. Still far off, but she could see streaks of rain through the trees.
*
‘Will you marry me, Ruthie?’
She would. What else was there to do?
His presence had always been too big. It filled the small town pub where he ordered a case and slung it back, one beer after another. His mates clustered around like flies on a dead horse, while she, she behind the counter pouring drinks, drunk field-hands swarming as the night grew long and guts filled with booze.
‘Get on with it, girly, I’m thirsty as.’
How he’d stick his hand up her skirt when she was just fifteen.
‘Seen your type,’ hot breath scorching her ear, ‘you girls, knowing beyond your years.’
Then he’d turn to her with that heart-stopping smile. Not many teeth that good in a town like hers. He was wiry muscle and tanned skin, tight jeans and a denim work shirt. He’d saunter in with a wink for her and the blood roared through her veins.
Those times he’d catch her on the way to the storeroom, and – when no one was watching – whisper she was the prettiest thing, she’d truly got at his heart. His mouth when he said the words. His mouth when he kissed her.
What hope did she have?
That handsome face weathering over the years. And her, what was left of her now?
He was a fire that burned her all up.
*
Her foot slackened. Pushing 130 but the needle began to drop.
The first spots of rain hit the windscreen.
She’d bandaged the wound. Start at the foot and work your way up, make it tight, not too tight or he’ll lose the leg. Two black punctures oozing a little from the holes. Don’t cut, don’t suck, just bandage it and get the hell to hospital.
She could have radioed the flying doctors – they might’ve come.
She didn’t.
*
‘Barren cunt.’
‘Don’t you fucking touch me again, Pete, or I swear —’
‘What, Ruth? What do you swear? Dying to hear it.’
‘Can’t talk to you when you’re like this.’
‘That’s your excuse, that is.’
His ugly mouth scrunched, decaying teeth, the stench of rot. The grog had ruined him.
He was getting too close again. She put the table between them.
She had only to reach for a knife.
He flung open the kitchen door, went outside. She heard the axe, smack, it bit into bone. Smack. It severed. She knew it was her body he was butchering, not the cow’s. Slicing muscle, sinew, bone. Separating limbs.
In her mind she threw boiling water over him, watched his skin begin to melt. She’d bludgeon him with the frying pan, push his carcass down one of the old mine shafts that dotted the hills like small, hungry mouths.
The way his eyes grew cold sometimes when he looked at her. She knew he was thinking of it. Caressing the idea like a new lover, getting a taste of it.
Only two of them out there. A hundred miles to the nearest neighbour.
The things isolation did to a person.
*
In the rain, the road became a red river. The tyres struggled, near bald, no money to go replacing them. The year had not been kind. Cows straggled through the brush like ghosts, grew thinner and thinner, and ribs and vertebrae rolled beneath the skin. Sometimes she saw them chewing the bones of their own dead, crunching them between flat teeth, trying to get at the sustenance.
The road kill grew bloated and wet, as though those mangled creatures might come alive again in the fog and drag their battered bodies from the bitumen.
Perhaps this year would be better – the rain had started early.
Perhaps the dam road would be closed.
Peter moaned. The windscreen wipers dragged across the glass, snagged in the muck of squashed insects and spattered mud. She imagined the blood in his veins growing thin like rainwater running down the windscreen. Inside him the venom pulsed towards his heart.
The tyres slipped. The ute slid.
*
Gone. Expelled from her body in a frightening rush of gore. Couldn’t even catch it in her hands before it slipped into the toilet bowl. Sometimes these things just happen. No way to tell, but she wondered if it’d been a boy.
Peter reminded her of a wallaby she once hit, smacked into at ninety, tiny thing. Still alive when she got out to have a look. Small bundle of shivering fur and blood, eyes growing dull. She had stroked its soft ears, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.
He walked through those days like a raw nerve, his body started to hunch, to curl in on itself, as though he forgot he once stood tall. His grief was a patch of fertile soil in an otherwise arid land. Soon small things began to grow. He let her stroke and comfort and confide. She had that power. He’d always been so hard before.
They sprung up like weeds in the garden. A tiny row of crosses you could see from the kitchen window. He always buried them himself. Even when there was no more than a handful of flesh.
*
She stood in the driving rain. The ute had slithered off the road into the soft, red soil. Peter’s face through the rain-streaked window looked blurry, as though he’d started to disappear. She climbed in beside him, wiped up the mess on his face and shirt. He groaned and opened his eyes.
‘Water.’
He drank noisily, like a child, and she fought to keep her expression calm, didn’t want him to see her disgust.
He swallowed hard, cleared his throat. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Ute’s bogged.’
His eyes wide at that, dilated pupils so huge,
black holes she could fall into and never find her way out. The whites of his eyes flecked with burst blood vessels that tangled like flooding creeks. His terror had a stink to it she could almost taste.
He clutched at the front of her shirt. ‘Ruthie.’
Hadn’t called her that in a long time. She shifted her weight away from him and her foot bumped against a shovel. Wrenching herself free, she grabbed it and got out.
The whole world was water. Rain hammered her body as she struggled to keep her footing, until she was soaked through and streaming with it. The shovel slipped from her hand. It lay at her feet, sinking a little in the mud. She stared at it, hand slowly clenching, unclenching, clenching.
Seconds passed.
Minutes.
She nudged the shovel with her foot as though it were a live thing.
The ute got bogged. Nothing I could do.
They’d believe her.
Finally, she bent down and picked up the shovel.
It bit deep in the dirt beneath the tyres. Mud, thick and iron red, bled back into the spaces she created. She gathered broken branches and jammed them into the gaps. She kicked over termite mounds and used the dry dirt to sop up some of the muck.
Turning the ignition, slowly with the clutch, slowly the accelerator. The ute writhed, wheels spinning. Then a catch, the wheels crushed the branches beneath them and the ute climbed back onto the road.
Ruth stopped and sat a while.
*
She pushed herself up in bed. He placed a tray on the counterpane. An eggcup, boiled egg with yolk that was dark yellow, fleshy. She thought she might retch. Peter had cut the toast into strips, the way his mother had done when he was feeling poorly.
‘Brought you a cuppa too. Know you’re feeling crook.’
‘I don’t want to do this.’
‘What?’
‘I’m not a person, Pete, just a body, a body for doctors to stick things into. For you to. I can’t live like this.’
His lips were pressed together so hard they’d gone white. She hated how he looked in these moments. The ugly set of his mouth, the way his jaw trembled; a familiar grimace, the face of a man brought up to think tears were for sissies. She hated that she thought so too. He never cried in front of her. She only saw the aftermath, like picking your way through after the river spills its banks, and the ground is churned and open like a wound, the trees strewn this way and that, and splintered and half submerged in the mud.
The Best Australian Stories 2017 Page 2