Whisper My Secret

by JB Rowley

  “You’re not all alone, Mum.”

  “You don’t understand, love. Besides you’ll be off before too long. Married. Starting a family of your own.”

  Her mother shifted her gaze to the bottle of gin. Swallowing the remainder of the liquid in the glass, she poured herself another. Her hand caressed the bottle as she placed it back on the table.

  Lowering her eyes Myrtle stared at the print on the page but the words danced before her, comprehension blurred by distress. She was thankful her mother did not allow herself to be seen in public in such a state. Still, tongues would be wagging. People always managed to find out other people’s secrets.

  Shortly after her father’s death her mother formed the habit of going out several evenings a week to the hotel around the corner or to the dance hall. She often returned with a bottle of gin, which she quickly emptied. Sometimes on Friday evenings she would return with a friend.

  From her bedroom where she was pretending to be asleep Myrtle could hear a deep male voice as well as her mother’s voice and her girlish giggles. After a while the voices became subdued, the laughter suppressed.

  The following morning her mother would get out of bed late, hardly speaking for the first couple of hours. Myrtle preferred to stay out of her mother’s way on those mornings, reading magazines or writing letters. She would get up quietly, make her breakfast and then go back to her room, longing for her mother to be the way she used to be.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Myrtle knew what Mrs Brussells did when she was alone.

  “Hello, Myrtle love,” Mrs Brussells would say when she met Myrtle in the street. “My, how you’ve grown. I remember when you were just a wee little bub in the pram. Little rosy cheeks you had too!” Myrtle had to suppress the urge to giggle remembering what she had seen Mrs Brussells doing.

  After school one day Myrtle and her cousin Lily were sauntering along the main street of Albury as they often did, sharing their dreams and pausing to admire window displays when they discovered Mrs Brussells’ secret. When they were growing up she spent a lot of time with Lily on the farm with Uncle Jack and Auntie Dot and sometimes Lily visited her. Now that Myrtle had moved into town most of their time together was spent in Albury. Even though Lily was two years her junior, she seemed to be at almost the same stage of development. They were almost ready to step into womanhood though their mothers still treated them like children. Together they talked about the boys they knew and gazed dreamy eyed at dresses in the shop windows, dreaming of the future when they would be women.

  On this day they stopped in front of Mrs Brussells’ dress shop. The shop was closed but the window dummy was clad in an elegant blue suit that enchanted them both and seemed to promise the transformation gauche schoolgirls yearned for. Behind it the curtains were drawn leaving a narrow gap where they should have met in the middle.

  The light was on in the shop. Lily noticed a movement and they peered through the gap in the curtains. Lily crouched down with her hands cupped to the glass and Myrtle leaned forward above her doing the same. They saw Mrs Brussells looking at herself in the long dress mirror. She was naked. Not a stitch of clothing on. They could see her large buttocks; pink and dimpled on top of her thick thighs like giant ice cream scoops oozing out over misshapen cones. Reflected in the mirror were her massive breasts, nipples like brown saucers colliding into rolls of jellied fat pushed upward by her round stomach.

  They watched Mrs Brussells run her hands over her breasts, her hips and her buttocks then around to the front across her stomach area and down to the dark hair between her legs. She gripped her pubic area with both hands. Stroking. Quickly. Urgently. Her knees were bent, legs spread apart, moving up and down rhythmically. She thrust her pelvis repeatedly toward the mirror, thighs wobbling and swinging as she did so. Myrtle looked up at the face reflected in the mirror. Mrs Brussells’ eyes were closed. Mouth open. Gasping. Her mouth widened into a broad smile.

  “Oh, oh yes! My love!”

  Startled by her voice and its odd tone Myrtle and Lily jumped back from the window. They ran away suppressing their desire to giggle until they were out of sight. As soon as they turned the corner they stopped, leaning up against a high wooden fence, gasping for air. Their eyes met, exchanging astonishment. Neither of them spoke about what they had seen, not then or afterward. It was their silent secret, offering them many opportunities for shared looks and smirks understood by no one else.

  That day was also the first day she and Lily had spoken about Henry Bishop. Before that Myrtle had not thought of Henry as a potential boyfriend. She had dreamed of others—like Clark Gable—had imagined him coming to Albury, landing at the racecourse in a special plane. He would step out of the plane, remove his flying goggles and look past all the other eager faces to her. Their eyes would meet and… But Henry Bishop? It was true she sometimes had butterflies in her stomach when he talked to her but it wasn’t the same as it would be with Clark Gable.

  After racing from the dress shop Myrtle and Lily went to the river to escape the heat in the shade of the trees that graced its banks. Lily watched while Myrtle picked yellow petals from a black centred daisy.

  “He loves me.”

  Her eyes followed the quivering journey of the slender petal twisting and fluttering to finally settle and float on the surface of the water below. She plucked another petal.

  “He loves me not.”

  Lily sat next to her. Her cousin was a pretty picture among the daisies. Her baby fat was beginning to distribute itself in womanly ways yet her fair hair framed an angelic face with clear blue eyes. Lily was the closest thing she had to a sister. When they were growing up their family farms had been near enough for them to walk across the paddocks to visit each other. Since she and her mother had moved into town they saw less of each other but whenever they were together it was as if they were still the same two little girls playing together; sharing new discoveries.

  She plucked another thin yellow petal and let it fall

  “He loves me.”

  She wasn’t thinking of anyone in particular. It was just a game.

  “Do you think you’ll marry a boy from Albury, Myrtle?” asked Lily.

  Myrtle shook her head, not to answer the question but to let Lily know she didn’t want to be interrupted.

  “He loves… Lily! You made me forget where I was up to.”

  “Ooh, I’m sorry, Myrtle Turtle.”

  Lily’s use of the familiar childhood nickname brought back memories of their girlish games when they picked the daisies and made them into chains that they strung around their necks pretending to be grown up ladies in pearls.

  Lily laughed, her fair hair falling forward as she reached down and picked another daisy. She handed it to Myrtle.

  “Here. Start again.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You do it, Lily.”

  Lily put her hand over her mouth and giggled.

  “Ooh Myrtle. Me? I’m too young to think about boyfriends and all that.”

  “Lily! You’re only two years younger than me.”

  “Well you’re only sixteen. Would your mother let you have a boyfriend?”

  “I don’t want a boyfriend, Lily. I’m just picking petals. Anyway, I’m seventeen next month.”

  “Yes and how old is Henry Bishop?”

  Lily’s dimples puckered as she smiled impishly at her cousin. Her question startled Myrtle.

  “I saw the way he was looking at you… in church the other day.”

  Myrtle blushed. Lily’s eyes widened.

  “Ooh. You do like him, don’t you?”

  “I do not!”

  “You do so. I can tell.”

  She hadn’t consciously considered Henry Bishop as a potential boyfriend until that moment. He was certainly charming and his smart clothes made him look like a man of the world. Boys her own age seemed childish and immature when she compared them to Henry. A tremor in the pit of her stomach revealed the perceptiveness of her cousin’s remarks. />
  “Lily. He’s… he’s too old for me.”

  “He’s jolly good looking. And he’s only 26.”

  “How do you know?”

  “My brother told me.”

  Lily was close to her two brothers. Anyone could tell from looking at them that they had a special understanding. They always seemed to know what each other was going to say and they laughed at the same things. When Myrtle was with them she sometimes felt like an outsider, not that they ever did anything to make her feel that way. It was just that they all sort of knitted together and Myrtle envied that. She couldn’t remember ever feeling like that with her mother and father, even though she knew they loved her.

  It wasn’t just their closeness that Myrtle envied. There was a strong physical resemblance between them that Myrtle did not see between her and her parents. Lily was almost a carbon copy of her mother, but Myrtle couldn’t see much similarity between herself and Etti. Her mother was short and dark with brown eyes. Myrtle was tall with chestnut coloured hair and hazel green eyes. As far as family traits were concerned she did not seem to have inherited any. Her mother was calm and ladylike while she was impulsive and reckless. She couldn’t recall noticing strong similarities between herself and her father either.

  “I’m going to leave school at the end of this year and get a job,” she said to Lily, changing the subject.

  “Ooh, Myrtle. How exciting. What do you want to do?”

  Myrtle had dreams of a wonderful life ahead of her; going to Sydney, being a typist in a big firm in one of those tall buildings, earning lots of money. She would meet lots of handsome men in smart suits who would take her to the best restaurants. Eventually she would find Mr Right. But somehow she couldn’t reveal those dreams not even to Lily. Deep within, far beyond her daily thoughts, a tiny part of her cradled the truth; dreams like that would not come true for the likes of her. She shrugged and looked at Lily with a twinkle in her eye.

  “Maybe I’ll get a job in Mrs Brussells’ dress shop.”

  Lily opened her eyes wide and giggled. Myrtle doubled over into peals of laughter.

  Their eyes met. Their laughter increased. Lily was the first to regain her composure.

  “Ooh, Myrtle ...”

  A faraway look came into her eyes as she settled back on the grass next to Myrtle.

  “What sort of wedding dress will you wear when you get married, Myrtle?”

  “Oh you know. Lots of lace. A long train. A sort of misty veil.”

  “Ooh, Myrtle. That sounds lovely. Can I be your bridesmaid?”

  “Of course. Silly!” Then she added with a teasing smile. “Silly Lily Pilly!”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Henry Bishop often visited Myrtle and her mother at the flat, sometimes with a message from his mother about sewing she wanted Etti Webb to do. His visits had become more frequent and if Myrtle’s mother was out dancing when he visited in the evening he would linger at the flat. He was usually gone before her mother returned but if she came home early they would quickly sit apart and pretend to be playing cards.

  Myrtle thought he looked handsome with his thick wavy hair and matching brows over his brown eyes. His maturity and air of authority impressed her and she was awed that he seemed to want to spend time with her.

  When she shivered with cold he put his arm around her, drawing her close. She didn’t resist. She relaxed against him listening to his heartbeat. Then as their embrace lingered she laughed, somehow embarrassed though not sure why. He released her and steered her toward the fire.

  “You haven’t got enough meat on your bones to keep you warm,” he said.

  After that she and Henry often sat quietly together when they had the flat to themselves. He would put his arm around her and she felt safe. She loved the feeling of closeness when they sat together.

  Once he touched one of her breasts gently. His touch sent a tingling sensation through her body. He kissed her on the cheek and whispered, “You have beautiful skin.”

  As time passed she allowed him more liberties. He would gently caress her breasts through her clothing and sometimes cup them in both hands to keep them warm, he said.

  On one occasion Henry put his hand on her stomach, stroking it gently. He moved his hand down, slowly, whispering to her, telling her what a lovely body she had. His words thrilled her but she resisted when his hand moved down between her legs.

  “I’m just touching,” he whispered. “You are so beautiful. So beautiful. I just want to touch. Nothing else. I promise.”

  Myrtle was confused. What did nothing else mean, she wondered. Wasn’t touching bad enough? Never let a boy touch you. Her mother’s warning echoed in her mind.

  Though she resisted that evening, several evenings later when he tried to touch her there again her resistance was less strong. He moved his hand slowly and gently down between her legs. Despite her fear she felt a warm thrill through her body. She let his hand caress her private area, surprised to find that she liked it.

  He whispered to her. “You are so beautiful.” Again and again he said it.

  A few days later she allowed him to lift her dress and place his hand on her panties. As he was caressing her stomach through her underwear his hand travelled down to her legs, caressing her thighs. Then he gently slipped his hand into her panties. She felt the warmth of his hand stroking her mound of hair. Her body trembled with pleasure. His fingers found her soft skin beneath the hair. He caressed her gently. She relaxed under his touch, enjoying the thrill of feeling his fingers exploring where she had never dared to touch herself. She felt the thrill of adventure and the warmth of being wanted. His hand travelled out from inside her panties, back down her thighs and slowly over her body through her clothing, back up to her breasts.

  “What a beautiful body,” he whispered breathlessly. “Beautiful.”

  He held her tight and kissed her passionately on the lips. She felt his tongue in her mouth. Excitement quivered through her body. When he released her he held her face in his hands and looked into her eyes.

  “I want you,” he said.

  Not sure what he meant she did not reply. She only knew that to be wanted by Henry Bishop excited her.

  Several weeks later she found out what he meant. At first she hadn’t realised it wasn’t his finger entering her body. But when he began to push himself against her with breathless exclamations of pleasure she realised this time was different. She kept her eyes closed until he had finished. His hot gasping breath whispered in her ear.

  “You’re wonderful.”

  Later she noticed she was bleeding. To her relief it didn’t last long. After that there were other intimate evenings together. Sometimes she enjoyed it but mostly she complied to give him pleasure, to keep him close, to be important to him. She realised that this was the activity her mother had been referring to when she said, ‘Don’t let a boy touch you’. This was what her mother wanted her to avoid. From overheard snatches of whispered exchanges between older girls in the schoolyard Myrtle had an idea that pregnancy could be the result although she wasn’t sure how. She pushed the thought away. She was sure Henry would know how to avoid that.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  But life can strike as quickly as death and Henry’s wisdom did not extend to the art of avoiding pregnancy.

  Myrtle pushed herself higher up on the bridge wall, leaning toward the water. Below, the Murray River churned and swirled, sending its sour dankness up to her. The river seemed to be waiting, beckoning her like poisoned stew luring a hungry victim. No one would ever know about the life in her belly. Her death would be remembered as a tragic accident. ‘She fell from the bridge,’ they would say. ‘So young. Her poor mother.’

  She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The world was silent.

  Suddenly fear gripped her, like an icy hand, twisting her stomach. Her knees began to shake. Hands trembled. She opened her eyes, staring down. It seemed a long way from the bridge to the water. A long way to fall. Myrtle swayed slightly. I
n her mind’s eye she could see her body hurtling down. Down to the water. Splash! The water surged through her nostrils and into her mouth, filling her lungs… No! Not drowning.

  There must be another way. The gas oven. Just go to sleep. Then it would all be over. But tongues would wag. ‘Killed herself. Just like her father. Must have been in the family way. Why else would she do it?’ Her mother would have to suffer the questions and the shame. Her shaking stopped. Her hands, no longer trembling, tightened around the rail.

  I don’t want to die.

  She leaned back and lowered herself from the bridge wall. Trance like, eyes fixed on the river; her gaze followed the progress of a pelican stalking the shallow edges alert for signs of movement, ready to swoop. One quick sharp thrust and its prey would be dead.

  If only she had the courage. One quick sharp movement. Her troubles would cease. Suddenly she remembered her father. Is that what happened to him? Did he take his own life? She had never believed that, but there was talk. Her mother had told her he had been diagnosed with throat cancer. Did he want to get it over quickly? The sound of an approaching car brought her back to reality. Pretending to adjust her shoe, she bent over as the vehicle passed.

  Coward.

  Sounds reached her as though from far away. Bicycle bells. Car horns. Trucks rattled. Children shouted. She shifted her gaze from the river to the town. People dwarfed by distance, walked along the streets. Bustling. Dawdling. Chatting. Waving. She wanted to scream out. “Help me! Someone help me! Tell me what to do.”

  Slowly, Myrtle walked away from the bridge. Throwing herself into the river seemed like the perfect solution when it was an idea in her head but in reality it became more terrifying than facing up to her dilemma. But somehow she felt a little better. At least she had tried to do something.

  Not yet ready to return home she wandered down to the riverbank and sat on the grass. The world around her looked the same and yet her world had changed forever since that morning when, not for the first time, she had felt her breakfast surging back up from her stomach. A sudden dash to the laundry bucket saved her mother’s tablecloth from being splattered with masticated eggs and sausages. Afterward Etti Webb’s careful interrogation led to the startling conclusion that her daughter was pregnant.