Rue was walking around, peering at framed pictures, at the displays of objects on the sideboard and the mantelpiece. When they were at the farm Audra did the same, mostly pausing in front of the two paintings: the seascape and the matriarch, Lenore.
‘Was this Mum’s?’ Rue asked, holding up a small vase.
Audra flicked her menthol at the ashtray. ‘I don’t remember.’
Just when the optimistic Rue thought the weather might hold, a new downpour came, rain running off the gutters to spatter and foam in the hydrangea beds.
‘Cold enough for a fire later,’ the adults said, but Olive worried about what might be happening at Soldier’s, to the bunker. Was water battering the roof, seeping through and washing inside? Was the rock and sand crumbling and falling? Would the whole thing collapse before she could even get Jethro Sands inside?
•
It was the same church and the same position they’d sat in as a family all those years earlier. Audra and Rue had spoken about it only once, soon after it happened, and had fallen into an undignified, scrappy mess. That day at Aster’s funeral, it had been Rue playing the secondary part of grieving aunt who cried and clutched, while Audra—tragic mother—remained dry-eyed and stood, passing tissues and patting her sister’s arm. Bruce was there, redundant at the side, shifting his hands from pockets to hips and back again, his usual phlegmatic self.
As the minister walked to the front to begin the service, Thistle had pushed her face forwards, in between Audra and Bruce who sat in the front pew. Olive wasn’t there, of course.
‘What happened to the baby?’ Thistle asked, but Bruce put his arm around his wife’s shoulder and tried to mask her from her oldest sister. It was no use, though, because later Thistle went to Rue. Unable to parry the forceful questions and dismantled by her own grief, Rue began weeping and unburdened herself. She told Thistle what had happened.
‘But you can’t tell anyone.’ She reached for the damp tissues balled in her sleeve. As she pulled them out a small flurry of white beads dropped to the floor. She was upset also, truth be told, that Sebastian had regressed. He was stuttering and wetting the bed again.
‘I knew it.’ Thistle inhaled, satisfied. She’d always had a nose for disappeared babies.
And now it was Thistle they gathered for at the Scots church. The place was half full, the sightlines clear. There were people from town and some even from Geelong. To Rue’s distress Cleg was wearing a kilt and as he slid into place next to Archie, he whispered, ‘Omnia extares,’ which Archie told Olive later he thought meant Uncle Cleg wasn’t wearing any jocks.
Audra sat next to Bruce, her back straight and lipstick muted. She wore an immaculate knit suit, grey with black trim, and her single strand of South Sea pearls. Her tweedy elegance contrasted with the unsophisticated Rue, who wore her dated pants suit and clumpy shoes. Olive could smell her mother’s perfume. Pink musk, undercut with the scent of tobacco and talcum powder.
The organ started to play and they stood for the first hymn. It was Thistle’s favourite: ‘Jerusalem’. When they got to the line about the bows of burning gold Olive leaned forwards, wanting to look at her mother and Rue, to see if they looked sad, but all she got was the side of William’s head, mouth in a firm line, eyes down, not even pretending to sing. The hymn finished and William went up the front. He was dressed in a blue suit with a tan-checked shirt and brown tie. He coughed into the microphone. Cleg walked to the front to join his brother and Olive saw him mouth ‘G’day, Blondie’. William seemed unsure about having Cleg with him at the front of the church.
‘I’m not sure what to say,’ he began. ‘My sister-in-law was a complex person, so perhaps if I remember her when she was young. She had a good sense of humour and was someone who knew her own mind. She didn’t care for herd thinking and she had a waist the size of Liz Taylor’s…’
The minister looked up. Cleg moved William out of the way of the microphone and stepped forwards. He put both his hands on the top of the lectern and spoke too loudly, causing feedback.
‘Aqua vitae.’ His tongue snuck out a little then was retracted. ‘Thistle had spirit, she was filled with it. As a young girl, as Bill said, she was determined. No one could tell her a darned thing.’ He winked at the minister. ‘I admired her but at times feared her, and feared for her. When we boys first knew Thistle Nash we were falling into all sorts of usual childhood scrapes. One time our old yellow dog died and I was a bit upset, and even though she was only a girl it was Thist who came and found me to try and make me feel better. She drew a picture of that old dog for me. She had a gentle nature and for most people it remained unexcavated. That’s not to say she was always a saint—who the flock is? Sorry.’
The minister waved an airy hand.
‘I guess that’s all,’ Cleg finished. ‘We should be kind in our memories of Thistle.’
The minister approached the podium. Cleg managed to say, ‘Requiescat in pace,’ making the microphone shudder again. The brothers started to walk away but William stopped and went back to the lectern. Cleg followed him, hand on his brother’s shoulder.
‘There’s one more thing. What’s happened, well, in some ways we expected it years ago, but I think it’s because of my wife’s tolerance that we got this far.’ William wiped his eyes. ‘It was a struggle for Thistle but she had a good heart.’ William kept wiping his eyes with his hanky, then he blew his nose.
Olive looked at Rue, who had tissues pressed to her lips and was weeping noiselessly.
William held up a finger, pointing it out at the church congregation, at his wife and stiff-backed sister-in-law. ‘You’re all invited back to the house.’
He and Cleg returned to their seats, William clearing his throat all the way. They had a final prayer about grace and how God blesses even those who do not deserve it, and that mercy was about Him not punishing humans even though they usually deserved it. Finally came some words about forgiveness and then the service was over.
Olive stood outside the church and waited for her parents, who were talking to other adults. They always took ages. They would say they had to be going, get on back to the house to prepare for the guests, but they wouldn’t move even a little but would continue to stand and talk. She got sick of waiting and went to sit on the steps, but it was windy and cold out there on the street. She was thinking to go inside again when Peter came pushing through the crowd and stood in front of her. He didn’t speak, just planted his feet wide and put his hands on his hips. He was smiling at her.
‘What?’ she said.
‘Guess.’
‘Just tell me.’
‘Jethro’s back.’ Peter pointed across the street.
Olive saw the car, parked in a small side street near the fish-and-chip shop. Inside the shop, Jethro Sands was sitting with his back to the window. Olive left Peter and ran across the road, keeping away from the shopfront. She walked around the car. The aerial wouldn’t work but as she stood in front her eyes went to the grille and she saw what she was looking for. She ran back and found her parents who were saying they were ready to leave and where was she, they’d been looking for her. Rue was saying they had to hurry up, they had to go to the cemetery and then back to the house so she could get the teacups out. She hadn’t managed to do that and was worried people would be turning up too soon after the burial.
Olive followed her parents to the car and across the street she saw Jethro come out of the shop and walk to his car. Their eyes met and she looked away.
EVERYTHING WAS STILL and wet and the rain made the eucalypts smell oily and sweet. At the drenched plot, they put Thistle in the ground, people slipping a little on the edge of the grave, shoes sliding in the slaggy clay. Rue had stopped crying but her eyes were puffy and rimmed with red. Audra’s face was tight and empty.
Olive took note of the trees, the rocks and the view off the slope of the hill. It was a bitter thing, this new taste, that seemed it might be about growing up. The jolt of time passing hurt so much. Sh
e was in between with her childhood at the back of her and something illogical and confusing that loomed in front.
After the burial, they went back to Serpentine. The magpies called words from the trees. Broooo—ooooos, brooo—ooooos. Will-will, will-will. Cleck-cleck-cleck. Out in the paddocks, small lakes had appeared in the grass and the sheep stood in circles with noses pointed inwards. Someone started a fire and Olive sat on the couch in the Green Room, staring into the flames as they surged and dropped. Audra came in, gave Olive a small smile and sat close to her. For a moment Olive thought her mother was going to take her hand. Then Mavis Sands joined them with her crêpey décolletage, sitting on the other side of Audra.
‘William was quite philosophical in the church, wasn’t he?’ Mrs Sands’s lipstick had bled into the lines around her mouth. ‘Thirty-seven, so young.’
In her politest voice, Audra said that yes, he had been and it was.
‘But Clegworth, with that kilt, not appropriate. Still, she’s at peace now, finally.’ Mrs Sands’s voice showed that she didn’t believe in peace like that and was just saying the words because everyone said them.
‘Mmm, yairs,’ Audra said.
‘And you’re looking a little peaky, dear,’ said Mavis, biting into a lamington, shreds of coconut falling onto the tops of her bosoms.
Audra didn’t seem to hear.
‘It’s really good Vanessa got dux,’ Olive said to Mrs Sands across her mother.
‘Thank you. Are you happy with your new classes and teachers? Maybe you’ll be friends with Vanessa again, that would be nice.’ Mrs Sands put the rest of the lamington in her mouth, smiling. What a liar. Olive didn’t care about her classes and she and Snooky would never be friends again.
‘Why did Jethro come back?’ The question slipped out without Olive thinking.
‘Oh. I didn’t think you had anything to do with my Jethro.’ Mrs Sands made her eyes small and turned her head on a slight angle as if considering a too-hard sum.
‘Mum said I had to be polite. Like a hostess.’
Audra stirred on the couch beside them.
‘It’s true,’ she said. ‘I did say that.’
‘Well…’ Mavis Sands drained her glass. ‘The job was going well, but it just didn’t work out with his uncle.’ She looked around. ‘Which was a shame. But he got his car fixed so he’s happy and says it was worth it.’
Audra leaned forwards. Her usually pale cheeks were florid, despite the powder. Two hectic bright spots of pink. ‘Did I thank you for the scones, Mavis? It was very good of you to bring them.’
Mavis’s sharp eyes moved back to Audra.
‘Such a shame about Thistle,’ she said. ‘Odd, how families have their runs of bad luck. And there, again. What is it about that place?’
Olive wasn’t listening. Whatever was coming, she couldn’t avoid it, and whatever it was would pass right though her. She was on a pathway and had no choice other than to push forwards. She stood up.
‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’ she said to Mrs Sands.
‘Oh no, dear, but thank you.’ Mavis Sands clutched at her wineglass, which was rolling empty in her lap.
•
The guests were gone. Olive found her mother at the back door. She looked tired and small.
‘Where’s Dad?’ Olive asked.
Her mother said she didn’t know.
Rue had a red blotch on her neck and was holding out a small bowl of French onion dip to William, who was shaking his head and growling that he would never eat that muck.
‘You need to eat something and it’s really quite nice,’ Rue was saying.
Olive sat in the sunroom on her own as the land slowly darkened outside. She could see the tree and Cleg’s van, the shed, the clothesline and the stepping stones in between. It was quiet and the chilled evening air began to pass through the flywire of the windows, air that was cool and fresh. Still she sat, unmoving. Cleg came out of the van and walked to the house. He came in the back door, saw her and smiled. He’d trimmed his beard for the funeral but still looked like one of the bushrangers.
‘Milo?’
She nodded.
‘Why doesn’t Mum have one of your sayings?’ she asked.
‘She does. Pulchrum est paucorum hominum.’ The words came easily but they were ones Olive had never heard before.
‘What does it mean?’
‘It means “beauty is for the few”. Rue’s was “pick, girl, the roses”, and I used to sometimes make it “prick”, just to make her laugh. She laughed more easily in those days.’
‘What was Thistle’s again?’
‘I don’t want to say what hers was because it wasn’t too kind.’ He was in the kitchen now.
‘Was it vulner something?’
He came back to the doorway. ‘Yes, it was “vulner something”.’
‘Did Thistle try hard to keep her baby?’
Cleg sat down again. He had a teabag in his hand.
‘Bloody hard, but they still got him from her. Poor Thist.’
‘Were you a lawyer? Did you help her try to get it back?’
‘No, I was just a kid, hadn’t even finished school. She didn’t want our help anyway. “It’s not your concern” is what she told me, and I believed her. They told her that it was in the baby’s best interests to go to a married couple.’
‘They?’
‘The adults. And later, once we were older, I said it too. Rue said it, we all said it. It’s what you said in those days but it was a mistake.’
‘Did Mum know?’
‘Of course she did.’
‘What about William and Dad?’
‘Everyone knew. She wasn’t ashamed about anything.’
‘Do you know who the dad was?’
Cleg looked at the teabag. He started to pull the string open. ‘She never told us that particular piece of information.’
‘Why didn’t Thistle live in her own house?’
Cleg put his hands over his eyes and went quiet. His shoulders started moving up and down, so she looked out the window and sat with her hands making fists. He kept his hands over his face and she was scared he was going to cry and then he did cry. She couldn’t move. All she could do was keep her hands in her lap and wait for him to stop.
‘I’m sorry. I miss my wife.’ He pulled out a hanky and wiped his eyes. ‘Any time it was suggested she get a place in town Thistle was firm, saying she had to be here.’
‘I’m going in with the others now.’ She got up.
‘Sorry,’ he said again. ‘Not what you expect from your uncle, is it?’
She shook her head.
‘Yes, you go, I’ll be in soon.’
She went into the hallway. How often adults were intruders, moving across rooms from left to right, distant in the background, or if not in motion, fixed in place, sitting in a particular chair, perhaps, or the front seat of the car. They stood on the street, at the shops, called you to dinner from doorways, interrupted the play and halted the swell and flow of the day’s business that for children happened under beds, astride bikes, on roofs and roads, in parks, up trees. The high places. The closed spaces. Adults didn’t pierce the membrane other than when they were getting in the way. But like rabbits, questions made more questions, and now that Thistle was gone, no one would be able to answer them. How did Christmas start? How deep was the dam? How exactly did the boy get sucked into the sand hole in America? Could the peppercorn out the back get hit by lightning ever again? What is a soul? Thistle had done her best with that one, but it was the only question Olive hadn’t received a satisfactory answer to and also the one she most desperately wanted to understand.
Though she and Thistle had spent a lot of time talking about these things, other adults were never interested. They folded into themselves like socks, became lumpy balls and shut you out. They might answer your questions but what they said was always the fewest words that they could give you, and inside those answers were messages, like codes, that told you
to stop even asking.
It occurred to her at that moment that she and her mother and father were always at the farm because it was comfortable for them there in the same way that she didn’t want to stay at Peter’s for dinner, but even so she still didn’t understand why Thistle had stayed. If she was Thistle she’d want her own house where she could have things how she wanted them and be free. She would cook dinner however she wanted or not have it at all. She would watch television all day and drink jugs of cordial. And she would read her Book of Lists all night, without anyone telling her to turn out the light and go to sleep.
•
In the Green Room the fire was so hot that people had started to take off cardigans and jumpers. Bruce and Audra had gone to bed and when someone suggested a game of charades, Rue said everyone was tired.
‘I think we’ve all had enough,’ she said, but nobody moved.
Cleg came in and stretched out with his eyes closed in one of the big chairs. Olive moved to stand in front of the fire.
‘Careful, those logs can roll,’ William said. His voice was thick and he didn’t make the sounds of each word properly. He’d had a lot of wine but he hadn’t talked about rabbits, not even once. ‘One would take off your foot at the flocking ankle.’ He stretched in his chair. ‘A decent Mallee root can burn for a week, you know.’
Cleg said that he was a decent Mallee root as well and that was when Rue said it was definitely time for bed.
Cleg told William he was going to move on from the mother work, that asbestos was where it was at.
‘There’s some real money in it.’
‘Money’s not important.’ Olive had moved a little distance from the fire but was in front, facing her uncles. ‘That’s what you always say.’
‘No?’ Cleg said. ‘How’s that sixteen dollars feeling in your pocket, then?’
Olive flushed. ‘But helping people and fairness is more important. That’s what the law is for.’
‘You’re a smart girl but you don’t understand. You will when you’re older.’ Cleg crossed his legs. Cleg always crossed his legs when he was going to talk about the law. ‘It’s how the law works. It’s not about whether someone did it or not. It’s not about justice, it’s about systems. You’ll see, it’s just life.’
Little Gods Page 24