by Bill Condon
There’s a rewind button in my head. I only press it once – thinking about things – but then it plays and plays and I can’t stop it.
Just remember that she’s eighty years old
Everything dies
I need you to promise
If I don’t come home
The locked room … the keys
I hear Mum crying. She’s in the lounge room with Dad and he’s hugging her.
‘Did something happen to Aunty Lola?’
They don’t answer. They don’t see me. But I know. I know she’s dead.
In the outside toilet I lift up the calendar. There are two keys on a nail. The grass is wet with dew as I walk to the shed. The only neighbour who might be able to see me is Mr Smith. His back door is shut and the curtains are closed. It’s safe.
I unlock the shed. Now I stand outside Aunty Lola’s room, the smaller key in my hand. It won’t fit in the lock. My hands are sweaty. I try it the other way around, and the other and the other and – it turns.
Have to stop and listen, make sure I’m really alone. Don’t hear anything. But I can feel my heart. It’s thumping. Like it’s trying to knock a hole in me.
Inside the room there’s only one thing. On the floor, in a corner, is the case. It’s big and wooden with gold hinges and it’s so heavy I can hardly lift it.
But I do.
I’ll keep my promise, Aunty Lola.
I hear the garbage truck rumbling down the street. I have to get the case out to the bin in time. I carry it to the side of the house and then drag it along the path. No one sees me. I make it out of the front gate and open the bin. But it’s full right up! The truck is coming closer. I put my hands into the bin to push down the rubbish but underneath some cardboard on top, it’s all bricks and concrete. I can’t move it. I can’t get the case in. I yell out to the truck driver, ‘Help me! Help me!’
He drives straight past.
‘Stephen.’
‘I’m sorry! I really, really tried but it wouldn’t—’
‘Stephen.’
Someone is shaking me. I open my eyes and see Mum – with Aunty Lola! It’s really her – she’s not dead!
‘It’s all right,’ Mum says. ‘We’re here with you.’
Aunty Lola sits on my bed. ‘Oh, dear me. A bad dream and now all these tears. Whatever upset you, it’s over now.’
‘Are you still sick, Aunty Lola?’
‘Not really. I’ve got pills to take and more tests to have. But that’s for another day. Right now I’m only sick about any worry that I might have caused you. Because of what I asked you to do. I’m so sorry.’
‘You’re okay, Aunty Lola. That’s all that matters.’
‘Is this a private thing?’ Mum says. ‘Or can you tell me about it?’
‘It has been a private thing for so long.’ Aunty Lola clutches onto Mum’s hand. ‘But I don’t want it to be that way any longer.’
Aunty Lola wets her lips. She takes a deep breath through her nose. And then she shares the secret with Mum.
‘I have a case that’s full of keepsakes, Rachael. I’ve had it locked away for most of my life. I’ve always prided myself on being the sensible one. But last night I was frightened. I wasn’t sure I’d get through the night and I panicked. All I could think of was that I had to free myself of that case … so I asked Stephen to do it for me.’
‘I was going to toss it in the garbage, Mum, but only if something happened to Aunty Lola. I’m glad I didn’t have to.’
‘Is that why you were so determined to come home from hospital, Lola? Because of this case?’
‘That’s right. I wanted to deal with it myself. And leave Stephen out of it. I should never have asked him. But at the time, I felt he was the only one I could turn to … ’
A single tear runs down Aunty Lola’s face.
Mum hugs her. ‘I don’t want you worrying any more. I’ll help you get rid of the case, if you still want to.’
‘I do.’
‘Good. Let’s get it done right now.’
‘I can help, too – if that’s all right, Aunty Lola?’
‘Of course it is, Stephen. I couldn’t do it without you.’
The room is much bigger than it was in my dream. I see a green lounge, shelves with books, a rack of dresses, some shoes. And on a table, in between two stacks of newspapers, is the case. It’s brown and old-looking. No chain or lock. Just a worn-out belt tied around it.
‘I know it doesn’t look very important.’ Aunty Lola starts to undo it. ‘But there’s so much of my life in here.’
She pulls on the belt but it’s cracked and hard. It doesn’t move.
‘Let me try,’ Mum says.
‘If you can’t do it, I will, Mum.’
‘Thanks, Stephen, but –’ she uses both hands – ‘I think I’ve … got it!’
The belt snaps.
All Aunty Lola has to do is open the lid, but she just stares at the case. And now there are lots of tears rolling down her face.
Mum says, ‘We’ll go away and let you have some privacy, if you like.’
‘No, no. I’m being a sentimental old duffer, that’s all. We shall press on.’
She lifts the lid.
Baby clothes.
Aunty Lola picks up a tiny pink jacket and presses it to her face.
‘It’s amazing. The same feeling is still there, inside me. This brings it all back so clearly.’
She opens a plastic folder and takes out a black-and-white photo, the size of her hand. I don’t know what to say, but Mum does.
‘Who are we looking at?’
‘My baby.’
‘I didn’t know you had a baby, Aunty Lola.’
‘Oh yes. She was beautiful and perfect. But I couldn’t keep her … these things happen.’
‘She’s got your eyes.’ Mum nods at the photo. ‘And you’re right, she was beautiful.’
‘How come you couldn’t keep her?’
‘Maybe Aunty Lola doesn’t want to talk about it.’
‘It’s all right, Rachael. I want him to understand … the plain truth is I wasn’t married, Stephen. This was in 1951. Back then, if you had children when you weren’t married, it was thought to be a shameful thing. My parents decided that the baby must be adopted. I was seventeen. Not strong enough to fight them. There’s many a time I wish I had been. But there you are – that’s what happened.’
‘What’s the baby’s name?’
‘The family who adopted her would have chosen their own name for her. I don’t know what that is. To me, though, she will always be Kathleen Julia. I named her after my dear sister.’
‘The one you told me about – who had an accident?’
‘Yes. She drowned when she was ten.’
Mum looks out the window. ‘It’s raining. A passing shower, that’s all. It won’t last long.’
Aunty Lola eases herself down on the lounge. ‘Is there anything else you’d like to know, Stephen?’
‘How many questions am I allowed? Because I’ve got about a million.’
‘Oh dear, that’s just a few too many. You may ask two more, and then the matter is closed.’
‘Okay – how come you didn’t get married?’
‘Well … my young man was handsome and kind. His name was Martin. I still have some of his letters in my case. I loved him. Very much. We talked about marriage. I certainly wanted to do it. But we were so very young … and since this is the day to be honest, I have to admit that he didn’t really love me.’
‘He must have had rocks in his head,’ Mum says.
Aunty Lola smiles, just a little bit.
‘Am I allowed a question, Lola?’
‘Of course, Rachael.’
‘Did you ever try to find out what happened to your baby?’
‘No.’
‘You could probably still track her down. It’s not too late. I’d give you a hand.’
‘No. She’s got her own life now. She doesn’t need me comp
licating things.’
‘Can I ask my other question, Aunty Lola?’
‘You may.’
‘Why don’t you put the photo in your family book? You could do a special page about your baby and make it look real good. Hey, I know – we could do it together!’
‘I’ve often thought of doing that, Stephen, but I can’t. Too many memories. Would you do it for me?’
‘Sure! It’ll be fun.’
‘Then take the photo and keep it safe.’
She gives it to me.
‘I’ll keep it in my stamp album, Aunty Lola. That always stays in the drawer beside my bed. It’ll be really safe there.’
‘Good boy. One day – a long time from now, when I’m gone – I want you to have my book. Make the special page for Kathleen Julia then. You won’t forget, will you?’
‘I won’t.’
‘I’ll remind him,’ Mum says.
In a tree outside, birds start singing. The rain’s stopped.
‘I think we should destroy this fool case now.’ Aunty Lola stands. ‘I’m relieved it’s not going in the garbage – that would have been awful. We’ll make a cosy little fire – that’s what we’ll do.’
When we get outside we see Dad on the back verandah.
‘I’m making breakfast,’ he calls. ‘Who’s hungry?’
Aunty Lola touches Mum’s arm. ‘You go ahead, Rachael. Stephen and I can do this on our own.’
‘Are you sure, Lola?’
‘Sure as can be.’ Aunty Lola looks at me. ‘I have a very good helper.’
I follow Aunty Lola to the incinerator. She has the case and a box of matches. I carry a bundle of newspapers.
‘Thin strips, Stephen, that’s what we want. They’ll burn well.’
I tear the paper and let it fall to the bottom of the incinerator. Aunty Lola takes one piece from me and holds a lighted a match to it. When the fire is blazing, she drops in the baby clothes, one at a time. She hangs on to every piece for a few seconds. I don’t think she really wants to let them go. But she does. Then she tips in a bundle of letters. I stand on a brick and look into the fire. The letters crinkle up and turn black. Then they’re gone.
‘At last,’ Aunty Lola says. ‘At last.’
It’s early in the morning and everyone’s asleep. I tiptoe past Mum and Dad’s room. How can Mum sleep with him beside her? I’d need earplugs. He’s a snore machine. Aunty Lola’s room is next. Her door’s half open.
‘Are you awake, Aunty Lola?’
I think she might be going deaf, so I lift my voice up high.
‘Are you awake, Aunty Lola?’
‘I am now.’
‘Can I come in?’
‘What in the world for?’
‘I can’t tell you. It’s a surprise.’
‘Oh all right. You may come in.’
I push the door with my shoulder. The tray clatters and Aunty Lola sits up in bed.
‘Now, Stephen. What is this all about?’
‘I made you a cup of tea – not too strong – just the way you like it.’
‘That’s lovely. But why?’
‘It’s your birthday.’
‘No it isn’t. My birthday’s tomorrow.’
‘Really? Are you sure?’
‘I think so. It’s been held on the same day for eighty years, and that day is tomorrow. You have the wrong day.’
‘Aw … Okay.’
Today’s the day; the right day. Bright and early, I creep down the hallway past Mum and Dad’s room. Dad isn’t snoring this time. Mum might have thrown a pillow at him. He told me she does that sometimes. Good thinking, Mum.
I tap on Aunty Lola’s door.
No answer.
‘Aunty Lola … helloooooo.’
She might be asleep. I’m sure she’d want me to wake her. And I know how to do it.
‘Happy birthday to you –’
I sing louder.
‘Happy birthday to you –’
And louder.
‘Happy birthday, Aunty—’
Aunty Lola opens the door. I’ve never seen her in her pyjamas before. They’re pink. Her slippers are big and fluffy.
‘Stephen Kelly, if I could confiscate your voice, I would. I was having a beautiful dream, until you interrupted.’
‘But it’s your birthday. You’re eighty!’
‘How kind of you to remind me.’
‘If you were playing cricket and you got eighty that would be a really good score. I think you’ll probably get a hundred. Don’t you?’
‘Not if you keep waking me in the middle of the night to sing to me.’
‘It’s not night-time. It’s nearly seven o’clock. In the morning!’
‘Exactly what I said – the middle of the night.’
‘I made you some toast, but I threw it in the bin. It got burnt because I had to go to the toilet. But there wasn’t a fire or anything. Our toaster back home pops, but yours doesn’t.’
‘That’s because it’s old, and like all elderly things, it needs its rest. You probably woke it up too early. I’m going back to bed now.’
The door half closes, but then opens again.
‘Thank you for the song, Stephen. I think it’s the first time anyone has ever sung for me.’
‘I know some other songs. Do you want me to sing them?’
‘Not just now, dear. Perhaps you’ll save them up for when I turn ninety.’
‘Okay!’
For the rest of the day I don’t mention the birthday. Neither do Mum and Dad. If I was Aunty Lola, I’d be saying heaps. Like, ‘Where’s my card? Where’s my cake? Where are my presents? But she just shuffles about, same as usual, making tea, doing a crossword, falling asleep in her chair …
And then, at two o’clock, the doorbell rings.
Aunty Lola wakes. ‘Is someone going to see who that is?’
I’m playing Monopoly with Mum and Dad.
‘We can’t leave the game right now,’ Mum says. ‘Would you mind getting it, Lola?’
The doorbell rings again.
Mumbling and grumbling, Aunty Lola shuffles to the door. She comes back holding a bunch of flowers. And she’s smiling.
‘This is very naughty.’ She sniffs the flowers – I hope there are no bees. ‘But I must say, they’re gorgeous. Daffodils are my favourites.’
All at once we yell, ‘Happy birthday!’
‘Enough of that. I don’t want any fuss. It’s simply another day.’
‘You’re only eighty once.’
‘It’s just a number, John.’
‘But it’s a really big number, Aunty Lola!’
Aunty Lola sighs.
Mum takes the flowers. ‘I’ll pop them into a vase, Lola.’
‘No, no, I’ll do it.’
‘Let me. Please. You’re the birthday girl.’
I hear the front gate rattle.
‘It’s Mr Smith and Allie. And they’ve got presents!’
‘This isn’t going to be a party, is it, Rachael?’
‘No, Lola. It’s just an afternoon tea – to let you know we care about you. You don’t mind, do you?’
The doorbell rings. And rings again.
‘Hold on!’ Aunty Lola calls out. As she plods to the door, she says, ‘The birthday girl is on her way.’
‘Not bad for a chunk of wood I found on the tip, is it?’
‘Hmm … it’s very interesting, Norm. What is it supposed to be?’
‘Can’t you tell, Lola? There’s your nose, your mouth … it’s the spitting image of you! It’s the first thing I’ve ever carved. I wanted it to be something special. Hope it’s all right.’
‘Come here, Norm.’
He steps closer.
‘I love it.’ Aunty Lola kisses him on the forehead.
Mr Smith’s face goes bright red, but he looks happy.
‘Open mine!’ says Allie.
‘I will, dear, in time. Goodness me. All this excitement is too much for a country lady of advanced ye
ars. I shall need a good lie down at any moment.’
‘Open it – please!’
‘Very well.’ Aunty Lola rips the paper to shreds. ‘A scarf. That’s exactly what I needed.’
‘I didn’t know what to get you,’ Allie says. ‘But Mum said you can never go wrong with a scarf. It’s secondhand – I got it at St Vinnie’s – does that matter?’
‘Not at all. I often shop there myself.’
‘What about the colour? Is that all right?’
‘Oh yes. The brighter the yellow, the better, I always say.’
‘Do you really like it, Miss Webster?’
‘Very much, Allie. Very much. Thank you for thinking of me.’
Now it’s my turn.
‘I didn’t get you a present, Aunty Lola, because you said—’
‘I said not to, that’s right, Stephen, and I’m very glad that you listened to me. You and your mum and dad did all that work around the house, and you bought me a beautiful new heater – that’s more than enough presents.’
‘But I did do something for you … ’
‘Oh yes?’
Dad walks in, carrying a cake.
Aunty Lola stares at it. ‘What do we have here?’
‘I made you a birthday cake! I forget what kind it is – Mum?’
‘A chocolate sponge.’
‘Aw yeah, that’s right. And it’s got jam in the middle. Mum helped me, but I did most of it on my own.’
‘He did, Lola.’
‘I wanted to put candles on it, but Mum said if we lit eighty candles all at once someone might call the fire brigade.’
‘Stephen, you don’t have to repeat every word I say.’
‘Sorry, Mum.’
Aunty Lola smiles.
We sit around the table and Mum gives us party hats. Aunty Lola is the first to put hers on.
‘Do I look cool, Stephen?’
‘Better than cool,’ I say. ‘You look sick!’
‘Oh … but I feel all right.’
Dad pats her hand. ‘Don’t worry, Lola. “Sick” means you look great.’
‘My, my,’ she says. ‘It’s all so confusing.’
‘Have some of my cake, Aunty Lola.’
‘Are you a good cook?’
I shrug. ‘Don’t know. I’ve never cooked a cake before.’