by JB Rowley
Hearing him say it again made her feel guilty. She thought about the times she had stolen arrowroot biscuits from the biscuit tin, and the times she’d crept out of her bed at night and listened at the parlour door trying to hear what her parents were talking about. She heard him open the gun cabinet and close it again, listened to his footsteps as he strode through the house. Then she heard the front door bang shut. Through the kitchen window she saw him heading out across the paddock, the rifle slung over his shoulder.
By late afternoon he had not returned. Her mother stood at the window watching for him. The leg of lamb was sizzling in the oven. The potatoes and pumpkin had been basted and browned. The cauliflower cheese was ready to serve. Finally her mother wiped her hands on her apron.
“Set the table for me, Myrtle love. I’ll go and see where your father is.”
Myrtle watched her take a couple of items from the first-aid box and place them in the pocket of her apron.
“Pop the cauliflower on top of the stove near the chimney if I’m not back in a few minutes.”
At the door she paused.
“If I’m gone too long you’d better run over to Uncle Jack’s.”
Etti’s sister and her husband Jack were their nearest neighbours. Their farm was a five-minute drive away.
With her apron still on over her housedress her mother headed through the big gate and off across the paddocks. From the kitchen window Myrtle watched her retreating back, her shape becoming smaller and smaller. The sun, low in the sky, cast shadows around the big red gums.
When the cauliflower cheese started to grow cold Myrtle put it on top of the stove, pushing it back near the chimney where it would keep warm without burning. Not sure what to do, she watched the clock. The hands barely moved.
The raucous cries of a solitary crow pierced the silence. Had her mother been away too long? Should she go to Uncle Jack? She would look silly if she brought her uncle back in a panic and nothing was out of the ordinary.
She went out onto the veranda and looked over toward the back paddock. In the distance she thought she saw a movement. Perhaps it was her mother. She strained to see. A blur on the horizon took shape. A person? Or people. It must be her parents she thought, pleased at the thought of soon being relieved of the responsibility of making a decision. As the shape came closer Myrtle could make out her mother’s head. She could not see her father. Her eyes scanned beyond the approaching figure to see if he was following. No. She focused again on her mother. She seemed to be carrying something, walking slowly, staggering, as if under a heavy weight. Myrtle brushed away a hovering fly attracted by the smell of the cooking meat. She watched her mother advance toward the house straining to see what she was carrying. With the realisation of what her mother’s burden was came a sudden knot of tension in her stomach. Etti’s face was streaked with tears. She struggled with the weight of her husband’s body in her tiny arms, half carrying, half dragging him. Blood dripped from his head area.
“Myrtle! Get the truck!”
Myrtle stood still.
Her mother screamed again.
“Myrtle! We have to get him to the hospital!”
Her mother’s voice, sharp with fear, spurred her to action. She bolted to the truck and climbed into the driver’s seat. She knew how to drive it even though she wasn’t legally permitted to. Her father had taught her. He often sat beside her in the passenger seat while she drove around the paddocks.
She drove the truck up close to her mother and pulled on the brake with a loud screech. Leaving the motor running, she jumped out. Her father’s head and chest were covered with what Myrtle recognised as her mother’s apron now soaked with blood. Myrtle grabbed an empty crate and placed it at the back of the truck. Between them they heaved her father onto the back of the truck, using the crate as a step. Breathless from the exertion she marvelled that her mother had managed to carry him any distance at all, let alone all the way from the back paddock.
Her mother collapsed on the floor of the truck next to her father. With the release of her burden she began sobbing, taking convulsive breaths. Her arms, shaking uncontrollably, remained stretched out in front of her. Her voice was shrill with hysteria.
“Tom! Tom!”
Her thin body shook.
Myrtle ran back to the front of the truck and climbed in. Her hands clenched the steering wheel. Sitting on the edge of the worn leather seat in an effort to reach the floor pedals with her feet she stared straight ahead as she drove. The gravel road was rough. She winced at every bump, fearful of increasing her father’s pain. But she had to drive fast. As soon as the truck entered her uncle’s property she put her hand on the horn and kept it there until she brought the truck to a shuddering halt outside the house.
Uncle Jack and Auntie Dot ran out of the house together. Jack Anderson’s keen blue eyes took one look at the scene in the back of the truck. He rushed to the driver’s side door, motioning for Myrtle to move over. She slid across to the passenger seat. He leapt into the driver’s seat, his long legs easily reaching the pedals. Auntie Dot ran back into the house and quickly returned with blankets. Climbing up into the back of the truck she threw one over Myrtle’s father and wrapped the other around Etti. Uncle Jack drove, his jaw set in determined concentration. Myrtle sat in the passenger seat. She stared ahead unblinking. She saw nothing and when they arrived in town had no recollection of the journey.
At the hospital her father was whisked away. Doctors in white coats and nurses bustled around him. One of the doctors returned a little later. With a solemn face he spoke to her uncle. Myrtle saw Uncle Jack’s shoulders slump. He glanced over at Etti, sadness etched in his expression. Her mother was sitting with her shaking arms still held out in the carrying position. The doctor took her away. Myrtle wondered about her father but was afraid to ask.
Her aunt and uncle took her back to their farm. Their house seemed quiet.
“Lily and the boys are over at the Wilson’s,” said Auntie Dot. Myrtle’s cousin Lily was also her closest friend. Her aunt handed her a cup of hot milk.
It was reassuring to see Auntie Dot’s familiar kind, blue eyes. Her clear skin and fair, wavy hair had once attracted the offer of a modelling career. Her now stout frame was evidence not only of the passing years but also of her daily habit of making cakes and scones for the family.
“Of course I have to taste the things I cook,” she once said to Myrtle with a dimpled smile. “But it goes straight to my hips.”
Etti and Dorothy had been brought up on the land and learned the skills of home baking from an early age. Myrtle was not surprised when her aunt placed a plate piled high with some of those freshly made cakes and scones on the table. Uncle Jack asked her how she was getting on at school. They chatted to her, every now and then pausing to reassure her.
“Everything will be all right, my dear,” her aunt said. “Your mother will be back soon.”
Myrtle listened politely but she was thinking about her father. She remembered how he’d taught her to ride when she was six years old. She had begged him for a horse for Christmas.
“First you need to learn to ride, lass. Then we’ll talk about whether you can have a horse.”
Her Christmas present that year was a doll but after Christmas lunch her father had brought old Nugget, their gentle Clydesdale, round to the back of the house.
“Come on, lassie,” he said. “No time like the present.”
He lifted her up onto old Nugget’s back and held her firmly while the horse became used to her. She was trembling; suddenly realising the top of the horse’s back was a long way from the ground. She clung to her father’s hand.
“Hold onto his mane.”
She grabbed old Nugget’s mane with her other hand.
“With both hands, lass. You won’t fall. Lean forward and hold on to his mane.”
Now that she was on his back gentle old Nugget seemed like a frightening, powerful beast. She slumped forward and hugged the horse’s neck. Only t
hen did she feel secure enough to let go her father’s hand. The ground was still a long way away. She wanted to cry out to her father, ‘let me down’ but if she did that she would never get her own horse. While she clung to old Nugget’s neck her father took the reins and led him slowly forward. Myrtle closed her eyes when she saw the ground moving beneath her. After they had been around the yard in one slow turn her father called up to her without stopping the horse.
“Now sit up, lass. Sit up. And open your eyes!”
She didn’t want to sit up or open her eyes but she obeyed her father automatically. She started to move back, away from old Nugget’s neck. Her hands clenched his mane tightly.
“You’re still leaning forward, lass. Lean back so that you’re sitting up straight.”
She moved back slightly.
“Come on, lassie. You can do it. I won’t let you fall.”
She leaned further back with her eyes still tightly closed, not wanting to see the ground moving beneath her. She was sure she would fall, or worse, start to cry.
“Good girl. Well done, lass.”
Her father’s encouraging tone gave her the confidence to open her eyes. To her surprise she didn’t fall. Her body relaxed. He walked in front of old Nugget, looking back over his shoulder to smile up at her.
Each day after that her father brought old Nugget round to give her a riding lesson. Each day she gained more confidence until eventually she was able to sit back comfortably on Nugget’s back with her hands relaxed in front of her. The poor old horse must have been pleased when she stopped clinging to his mane.
The phone rang at the Anderson’s, startling her out of her reverie. Uncle Jack hurried to the next room to answer it.
“Yes, I see. I’ll come in and pick her up,” he said.
He hurried out of the house. Myrtle heard their old Chevrolet truck rattling along the drive. It sounded different, as if straining to resist the pressure of the unaccustomed urgency. Some time later she heard the truck returning, now sounding more like it used to. Doors slammed. Uncle Jack walked in, supporting Etti Webb with a firm grip of her elbow. Her mother walked unsteadily, her head lowered. Her arms still shook a little, though she no longer held them out in front of her. Myrtle was shaken by her appearance. Her mother was a stranger. The things Myrtle recognised about her were not there; the quick, sure step, the upright back, the ladylike gestures. She moved as though she could hardly lift her feet from the ground, as if she didn’t care what her body did.
Aunt Dorothy stepped forward and took her mother’s arm.
“Sit down, Etti, love. I’ve got the kettle on. You just sit down there with Myrtle and don’t worry about a thing.”
Her mother, with pale face and red eyes, sat down at the table across from Myrtle without saying a word. It was as if she hadn’t heard what Dorothy said, merely responded to her hand guiding her to the table. She fixed her eyes on the wall behind Myrtle. When she spoke her voice quavered.
“Your father…”
She chewed on her lip, still staring at the wall. Her eyes filled with tears. Myrtle looked away embarrassed for her mother. Silence gripped the room. Finally her mother spoke again.
“Your father ... won’t ... be coming home.”
Myrtle was confused. What did she mean? Of course she knew her father would have to stay in the hospital, probably have an operation. She knew that. But why was her mother saying he wouldn’t come home?
“He’ll come home one day.”
Myrtle was surprised to hear fear in her own voice.
“No.”
Her mother’s voice was sharp. Myrtle looked at her. Etti continued staring at the wall. Myrtle looked up at her aunt and uncle. Uncle Jack shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other. He looked at his wife. Auntie Dot looked at Myrtle sadly. Her eyes held Myrtle’s for a long time as though she were trying to send her a message. Myrtle did not understand.
“He’ll come home one day?”
Her mother’s head fell to her chest. She folded her arms on the table. Her body slumped forward. Auntie Dot went over to Myrtle and put her arms around her shoulders.
“He can’t come home, my dear,” she said. “There was nothing they could do for him.”
Myrtle still didn’t fully comprehend what they were trying to tell her. Then the words sprang from her lips as if someone else had placed them there.
“Is my father dead?”
Her own question took her by surprise. Her mother started sobbing. Her aunt’s voice was subdued, almost a whisper when she answered Myrtle.
“Yes, my dear. I’m so sorry.”
Myrtle shook her head in disbelief. Death couldn’t happen that fast. It didn’t make sense. Dorothy Anderson sat down next to Etti and put her arm around her. Uncle Jack, clearing his throat and mumbling something about seeing how the kids were, left the room. Her mother raised her head slowly and dabbed at her eyes with the handkerchief Auntie Dot handed her.
“You’ve got to be strong, Etti. For Myrtle’s sake. It’s what Tom would have wanted.”
“Why?” sobbed her mother. “Why?”
“The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away,” murmured Auntie Dot.
CHAPTER FOUR
As far as Myrtle was concerned the Lord could go jump if He was the one that took her father away. A tragic accident, the townspeople said. It didn’t make sense to Myrtle. How could God let a tragic accident happen? There was only one answer. It was all a lot of silly rubbish. There was no God. No one had ever given her proof that there was a God but she surely had proof that there was no God. The matter was settled in Myrtle’s mind.
Just as she had watched the coffin carrying her father’s body being sombrely loaded into the back of the hearse she had also had to watch their lives being driven away in crates and boxes. Life on the farm, the only life she had known, had been snatched away from her. She and her mother had to move into a flat in Albury. They might not have been even that fortunate except for Henry Bishop. He had worked on their farm with her father during his school holidays. Myrtle was just a child then and Henry was almost a man but he always treated her as though she were important. He answered her childish questions in a respectful manner. Sometimes his brown eyes twinkled but he never laughed at her.
After her father died he rode out to the farm on his bicycle to see Etti. Realising her mother would not be able to continue to run the farm he suggested they move into the flat at the back of his parents’ house.
“The place has been empty for ages,” he said. “We’d be glad to have someone living in it. You just let me know what sort of rent you think is best and I’ll fix it up with Mother.”
He looked at Myrtle standing shyly in the corner.
“Now let’s you and me get some things packed for your mother, little Myrtle,” he said.
She followed him around the farm that day obeying his every command. She could hardly take her eyes off him. He seemed to know exactly what to do. It was almost like having her father there.
“He’s a good lad,” said her mother. “It’s a wonder though with a mother like that. She keeps him pretty well under the thumb. His father too. No doubt about it.”
The first few years of their new life were a blur for Myrtle. She missed her father, missed the freedom of the farm, the horses, the animals. The flat was a place of melancholy. Her mother often sat for hours, her hands in her lap, eyes staring. Sometimes she stared at photos of Myrtle’s father. Sometimes she simply stared. She pretended cheerfulness when friends called in with gifts of home-made scones and soup and kindness. Aunt Dorothy called in often with cakes and pies she had made for them. When the visitors left Etti seemed more miserable than ever, often bursting into tears. Mrs Mathews, a friend who lived close by, called in almost every day. She was sympathetic but firm, urging Etti to take care of the living. It was at Mrs Mathews’ suggestion that Etti set up the sewing machine in the back room and began taking in sewing to help make ends meet. When there was sewing to be
done Etti worked hard and seemed to be able to put her grief aside. Her friends were pleased to see her industrious and Aunt Dorothy was satisfied that Etti was now getting on with life. Perhaps it was only Myrtle who knew how deeply her mother’s loss had penetrated her soul.
What would her father say if he could see her mother now? She had changed in ways Myrtle would never have dreamed possible. She did not have the same interest in taking care of things the way she used to. On the farm she had been up and doing early in the morning, helping with the milking, cooking a hot breakfast for them all, cleaning the house, sewing, washing clothes and making curtains and various other items to pretty up the place. There were days now when she could hardly drag herself out of bed to open a can of baked beans. It was an effort for her to keep the flat clean and tidy. On the farm she rarely took a drink—sometimes a small sherry in the evening with Father but that was all. Now she poured her first drink at lunchtime. She told Myrtle the alcohol was medicinal, hinting she had some sort of illness.
“I need something for the pain, love,” she said one day, waving the glass of gin and tonic in one hand and clutching the bottle of gin with the other. “You know I’m not one of those women who drink for the sake of it.”
When she swayed unsteadily on her feet she sat down at the table and placed the half-empty bottle carefully in the middle, keeping a firm grip on it. On such occasions Myrtle feigned absorption in a novel or the latest copy of The Australian Women’s Weekly. Etti Webb glanced at the photo on the mantelpiece—a studio shot of Myrtle at around twelve months old sitting on a heavy wooden table wearing a bonnet and a knitted dress ballooned out by a bulky nappy underneath it. Behind her, solemn faced, stood her mother and father. Etti lifted her glass toward the photo in the gesture of a toast.
“To my darling husband,” she said. Then she cried, “Why? Why did you leave me?”
Myrtle jumped to her father’s defence. “Mother! He died! It wasn’t his fault!”
Etti lowered her glass to the table but her eyes remained fixed on the photo. “He left me,” she said, setting her mouth in a determined line. “He didn’t have to die. What am I supposed to do? Left me all alone. What am I supposed to do?”