by Gee, Maurice
Kitty shifted the photo of the girl to the back of the piano and lifted the lid. It came up easily, without a sound, and she held it with one hand and stood on tiptoes, trying to see the hammers and wires, but this was the tallest piano she had ever seen and she could not manage. With her free hand she edged the piano stool along the floor and climbed on it, standing with bent knees to keep it from revolving. Now she could see the innards. There was something red in there, like a liver or heart. She reached in, scared of spiders, and pulled it out. She let it fall open in her hand. A red balaclava. Her breath came sharply. It was like a cut-off head. It was the head of the man who had knocked her down.
The swivel stool made movements under her feet and she felt slightly dizzy. She knelt, still holding the lid. She put the balaclava on the keys and unbuttoned her blouse. Carefully she put in the balaclava, though it made her feel dirty, made her itch. She buttoned up and pressed down the lump under the cloth, then she lowered the lid and shifted the photo of the girl in the bonnet back to its place. She put one of her feet on the floor. The seat of the stool made a quarter turn. It gave a wild shriek of pain.
Kitty almost fainted. She stood with mouth open, eyes shut, and heard a drumming silence in her ears. Then she held the seat with two hands and took her other knee off. She faced the door. It was no surprise to her when the handle started to turn.
The door opened slowly. Mrs Marwick stood there, in black and purple dress and buckled shoes, with green beads cascading, with bony hands pressed to her abdomen. Then she stepped in and closed the door and the room turned darker. Only a little light came from the crack Kitty had left in the curtains. Mrs Marwick’s face seemed luminous. A faint humming came from her mouth, as though she were making changes in her head, lifting a kind of music up in pitch. To Kitty she seemed to go out of focus, and come back sharp and black, longer in her bones. She felt like screaming.
‘Lucy, is that you?’ Mrs Marwick said.
Kitty stepped backwards along the mat. The old lady followed.
‘Where have you been? I’ve been looking.’
She held out her hands, then dropped them to her sides. She smiled, showing teeth as yellow as the piano keys. ‘Play for me, child. Do your scales.’
Kitty stood still. It was not just darkness confusing Mrs Marwick. The old lady had gone back through years and years of time. Lucy was the girl in the photographs, and she was Lucy. The mistake was one of knowing, not of seeing, Kitty thought. She felt to put it right would be to place herself in worse danger. She looked at the piano. Those were easy scales.
Quickly she sat down. She began; exercises running up and down. If Irene thought the Wix piano was out of tune, she should try this one. It sounded, Kitty thought, like a wire fence. It was like the broken mandolin in the back of the wardrobe at home. But she played on, up and down the scales, and did not dare look at the old lady behind her. She heard springs twang as Mrs Marwick sat on a sofa. When she was done she sat looking at her hands.
‘Yes,’ Mrs Marwick said. That was all. The silence grew longer and longer. Kitty risked a look over her shoulder. Mrs Marwick was sitting straight. Her eyes were blinking, puzzled, as though she began to see part of the truth. But she pushed it away, pushed it in a comer, and gave a smiling frown at Kitty. ‘Keep on. You’ll never get better if you don’t try.’
Kitty played the scales again. Mrs Marwick said, ‘That was not very good. You must practise harder.’
‘Yes,’ Kitty whispered.
‘Come and sit by me.’ But again she had that puzzled look. She was on the point of coming back through the years – came a little way, then slipped into the time of Lucy again.
‘Sit by your mother.’
Kitty threw a look at the door. If she could get there, she could get outside. She had to be gone before Mrs Marwick realised she was someone else. But boots tramped on the veranda before she could move. A door slammed at the other end of the house. Mrs Marwick smiled.
‘He’s a noisy boy. Sit. Here.’ She patted the sofa at her side, sending up a puff of dust. Kitty was more frightened of Edgar than of his mother. She sat down.
‘Tell me about school, Lucy. What lessons did you have today?’
Kitty did not know what to say. ‘Sums,’ she whispered, hoping it was the proper word.
‘Sums? Are you good at them? Are you working hard?’
‘Yes.’
‘I was good at sums. On the ship coming out we had our lessons in the salon. Mr Gibbons took us. The minister. But oh, we were so seasick all the time. And sick with fever. Estelle Weaver died. And Tommy Gamble died. Poor wee things. They were buried at sea, wrapped in tarpaulins, side by side.’ She had taken Kitty’s hand and was stroking it. Her breath was on Kitty’s face and had the same musty smell as the room. ‘It was calm weather. And the sun was beating down. And the sails were lying on the masts and just going flap, flap, now and then, and my mother was crying. Estelle’s mother tried to jump into the sea and men had to hold her. Grief is terrible, Lucy. A terrible thing.’ Kitty said nothing. She looked at the old lady’s hand stroking hers. She knew it would find her out, discover the truth, and bring Mrs Marwick out of that time into now. And the fingers stopped their stroking. They felt. They squeezed. Snatched away. Mrs Marwick gave a dreadful cry. She fastened her gaze on Kitty’s face.
‘You are not Lucy!’
‘No,’ Kitty whispered.
‘Who are you?’
‘Kitty Wix.’
‘Where’s Lucy?’ It was a wail, a cry of grief.
‘I don’t know,’ Kitty said.
Mrs Marwick turned her face away. She wiped her hand across her cheeks. Kitty could not tell if she was crying, but when the old woman looked back, her eyes were dry. She said in an ordinary voice, ‘Lucy was younger. How old are you?’
‘Eleven.’
‘Lucy was eight. She drowned in the river. Did you know?’
Kitty could not speak. She shook her head.
‘It was thirty-five years ago. Edgar was watching her, but he didn’t watch.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Kitty whispered.
‘And now those children from the town swim there. I won’t have them playing games where Lucy drowned. Let me see your face.’ She seized Kitty’s jaw with her bony fingers and turned her face. ‘Kitty Wix. The baker’s name is Wix. He came here with that teacher.’
‘He’s my father,’ Kitty tried to say, but the old woman’s nails dug into her cheeks. She shook Kitty’s head.
‘What have you stolen?’
‘Nothing.’
‘How did you get into my house? I won’t have it. I won’t have you town children here.’ Suddenly she shrieked, ‘Edgar!’ She stood up and dragged Kitty by her wrist. ‘Edgar!’ She pulled her to the door with wiry strength and opened it. Again she called her son. The name seemed to rattle in the hall.
‘Never here when I want him.’
‘Let me go,’ Kitty cried. She tried to fight, but Mrs Marwick slapped her about the face, stinging slaps that made Kitty gasp. She pulled her down the hall to a cupboard at the end and unbolted the door. The inside was bare except for old shoes. Balls of dust ran into the hall like grey spiders.
‘That’s where naughty children go.’
‘No!’ Kitty cried, but Mrs Marwick bundled her in. She stood in the hall, elongated, towering. Her face swelled as she leaned at Kitty, tumbled in the back.
‘And they never come out.’
She slammed the door and bolted it. Kitty was locked in the dark.
Irene waited until Marwick stopped chasing Noel and Phil. He was two fences back. He leaned on a gate and she imagined she could hear him panting. ‘I’ll get you,’ he yelled.
Irene ran out of the scrub and joined the boys. ‘The pin got stuck. I couldn’t get it out.’
‘Doesn’t matter. We’ve got him.’
‘We found rags and benzine in the barn. He trapped us but we got out through a loose board at the back. Where’s Kitty?’
&
nbsp; ‘She went into the house. I thought she must have come out the other side.’
‘We didn’t see her.’ They looked back over the paddocks. Marwick was trudging away, hands on hips, on a line that would take him across the old croquet lawn to the house.
‘If he gets her, he’ll kill her,’ Noel said.
‘Maybe she’s hidden,’ Phil said.
‘How’s she going to get out?’
‘Let’s get the police,’ Irene cried. They looked at each other. Things had got beyond them. Edgar Marwick didn’t know any rules. He was like something springing out of nightmares into life.
They ran all the way into town and told their story to Sergeant McCaa. He looked at them sourly. ‘A real bunch of Hottentots, aren’t you? All right, come on.’
He put them in his car and drove out over the river bridge, round the foot of Settlers Hill, and along the road through the scrub to Marwick’s farm. ‘This had better be true.’
Thomas Hedges heard the car cross the one-way bridge. He was collecting river-bugs on a tranquil stretch above Girlie’s Hole. He had his specimen case and magnifying glass and a tiny muslin net, and was inspecting a boatman on the tip of his index finger when he heard the Gatling-gun rattle of boards and saw the car, with Irene Chalmers sitting by McCaa, and Phil and Noel in the back. He packed up quickly, left his case under the bridge, and set out for the farm.
In the yard Edgar Marwick stopped the grinding wheel. He had gone back to sharpening the sickle and held it in his hand as McCaa came up with the children. He felt the edge with his thumb and looked at Noel and Phil with a white-toothed grin.
‘So, you caught them?’
‘They came to me, Mr Marwick,’ McCaa said.
‘What’s their story this time?’
‘Where’s my sister?’ Noel burst out.
‘What?’ Edgar Marwick said. To McCaa he said, ‘Who’s he talking about?’
‘There were four of them. Another girl.’
Marwick shook his head. ‘I only saw these two. Sniffing round in my barn. What’d you pinch? Have you turned their pockets out?’ he asked McCaa.
‘What have you done with her?’ Noel cried.
McCaa put his hand on his shoulder. ‘One thing at a time. I’d like to look in your barn, Mr Marwick.’
‘What for?’
‘They say you’ve got benzine in there.’
‘They’re still on that? All right, go ahead. But it better be the last time I see these kids. I’m tired of it.’
They all went into the barn, Marwick last, and Phil led them round the hay pile to the door. It was closed and bolted. Hay was piled in front of it again. He swept it aside with a sick feeling. He knew what he would find. And the rags and benzine were gone. All the little room contained was a pile of empty sacks and a length of rusty chain. Noel and McCaa looked over his shoulder.
‘It was there,’ Noel cried. ‘Three or four cans. And some rags.’
‘He’s shifted it,’ Phil said.
Marwick said nothing.
‘Outside,’ McCaa said to the boys. He pushed them ahead of him into the yard.
‘Told you it was moonshine,’ Marwick said. ‘That place has been empty since I put the hay in.’
Thomas Hedges arrived. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Keep out of this, Mr Hedges,’ McCaa said.
‘And get off my property,’ Marwick said.
‘We found rags and benzine in his barn,’ Phil cried.
‘He’s shifted it. And he’s got Kitty.’
Marwick said to McCaa, ‘I’ve had enough of this. I want you to charge these children with trespassing in my barn. And they jammed my pump.’ He took the hairpin out of his pocket and showed it to the sergeant. ‘Stuck in the valve.’
McCaa took it. His mouth grew thin. ‘Yours?’ he asked Irene.
‘Yes,’ she said in a voice almost too small to be heard.
‘Did you jam the pump?’
‘Yes.’
‘I showed her how. So we could search the barn,’ Phil said.
McCaa ignored him. ‘I suppose you’re the one who wrote that letter?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Britannia. Who’s Belgium?’
‘I’m Belgium.’
‘My sister’s Britannia,’ Noel burst out. ‘And he’s done something to her.’
‘What about this other girl, Mr Marwick?’ McCaa said.
A voice called imperiously from the veranda, ‘If you’re looking for the Wix girl, she’s in here.’ Mrs Marwick stood by the half-open door. She held her stick and turned it in her hand, pointing down the hall. Then she pushed the door with it, swinging it wide. ‘And I’ll be pleased if she’s taken away.’ She went into the hall.
McCaa, the children and Hedges trooped after her. Marwick came last. She led them under the chandeliers, along the floral carpet strip, and came to a cupboard built in a wall. She hooked back the bolt with a white forefinger and threw the door open dramatically. Kitty sat against the back wall, crouching like a monkey in a den. Her face was white as paper. She blinked in the light.
Hedges pushed between the sergeant and Mrs Marwick. He took Kitty’s arms and lifted her out. Noel came and put his arm around her.
Hedges swung round. ‘Who did this? You?’ To Marwick.
‘It was me, Mr Hedges,’ Mrs Marwick said. ‘I caught her stealing things in my parlour.’
They looked at Kitty. Her face was taking colour. She licked her lips, then spoke in a pale little voice. ‘I wasn’t stealing.’ She fumbled at her blouse with fingers that seemed numb, undid a button. She pulled out the red balaclava and held it up.
‘Only this.’
Chapter Nine
The Moon, and Other Things …
The chandeliers tinkled in a breeze coming through the door. From its pen by the barn the Jersey bull gave a bellow as though announcing some important event. McCaa stepped forward and took the balaclava from Kitty’s fingers. He turned to Edgar Marwick.
‘Mr Marwick?’
Marwick blinked. He shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen it.’ He swallowed and his Adam’s apple travelled up his throat and down again. ‘We’ve only got this girl’s word she saw someone in a balaclava.’
‘And ours,’ Phil said.
McCaa turned to Kitty. ‘Where, did you find it?’
‘In there.’ Kitty pointed. ‘In that room.’
Mrs Marwick moved for the first time since she had opened the cupboard. She pushed the door with her stick and rammed in the bolt. ‘The child’s telling lies.’
‘No,’ Kitty said. ‘It was in the piano.’ McCaa looked at her with disbelief. ‘Inside,’ she said, ‘down in the wires. I played a note and it made no sound, so I had a look.’
‘I’ve never heard such rubbish. Balaclavas in pianos. She’s making it up,’ Mrs Marwick said.
‘I’m not.’
‘We’ll have pots and pans in the bathtub next.’ But she found McCaa still watching her. She snatched the balaclava from his fingers and held it under her son’s nose. ‘Is this yours?’
‘No, it’s not.’
There! You see?’
McCaa took the garment back. This time he held it in his fist. He took no more notice of Mrs Marwick, but said to Edgar, ‘And that overcoat I asked you about? No buttons.’
‘Not mine either. If you ask me, these boys found that thing.’ He flicked at the balaclava with his forefinger. ‘Or stole it somewhere and came here to hide it, to make trouble. This schoolteacher’s probably in it too. He’s been sneaking about on my land.’
‘I’ve been collecting specimens in a public river,’ Hedges said. He sounded pompous.
‘All right. All right,’ McCaa said. He showed the balaclava to Mrs Marwick. ‘You’ve never seen it, ma’am?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Or you?’ To Edgar.
‘No, I haven’t.’
McCaa turned to Kitty. ‘And you, young lady? You stick to your story?’
; ‘It was in the piano.’ Mrs Marwick glared at her but Kitty looked back steadily. She felt safe with Hedges behind her.
McCaa put the balaclava in his pocket. ‘Well, I’ll keep it. I’ll make some enquiries. I think you children better go home now. Unless you want to press that charge, Mr Marwick?’
Mrs Marwick answered for him, ‘No, we don’t. Just keep them off my land. And out of my house.’
‘And away from my pump,’ Edgar Marwick said, but he spoke as though his mother prompted him. Thomas Hedges noticed that his eyes rested, with an expression almost of grieving, on the lump made by the balaclava in McCaa’s jacket pocket.
They went down the hall and across the veranda and the door banged shut behind them. McCaa gave a curt nod and went off to look in the barn again.
‘He won’t find anything,’ Noel said.
They walked along the road to the bridge. Phil climbed down the bank and retrieved Hedges’ specimen case.
‘It’s him, isn’t it, Sir? Mr Marwick?’
‘Yes, it’s him.’
‘He couldn’t have put that benzine far away. We could go back –’
‘No,’ Hedges said. ‘He’s dangerous. Stay away.’
McCaa’s car went by and left them in a cloud of dust.
‘You leave it to Sergeant McCaa. He’s no fool. He’ll keep an eye on Marwick. I don’t think there’ll be any more fires.’
‘Will he tell on us?’ Irene, said. ‘About the pump?’
‘I don’t think so. He’s more concerned with Marwick right now.’
‘If my mother finds out she’ll send me away from Jessop. I’ll pretend I’ve got asthma.’
‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,’ Hedges said. ‘Kitty? You all right?’
‘Yes,’ Kitty said.
‘You did very well. How did you manage in that cupboard?’
Kitty smiled. Her colour had come back. In fact, the world seemed more brightly coloured than it had been before she was locked in the dark. The breeze touched her skin as though a layer was gone, the sound of the river, bubbling on its stones, ran into the inside of her head as though water itself were running there. Mrs Marwick, the dusty room, the child in the photographs, thinned and slipped away until she could hardly recall them.