After Martha made her first Holy Communion she said to Gilda, ‘I know what it is. You’re a saint and they will canon you afterwards. You’re in rapture, that’s all,’ and put a Vanilla Wine biscuit to Gilda’s lips until she opened her mouth.
It was Martha who invented their sign language. In the spring they perfected it and in the process learnt to curl their tongues, plait the fingers of one hand and the other, and make their foreheads wiggle back and forth.
It was Martha who waited in the waiting rooms of psychiatrists and tarot readers and priests and counsellors. Inside herself, Gilda waited too.
There are photos of them:
In the bath.
In their Sunday best.
In matching coats in the snow.
With the first boy they ever liked.
Beside their new bikes.
Hostesses at a party with a tiny tea-set and Sophia and Maggie.
With the cat in doll’s clothes.
Playing guitar on the tennis racket.
And later, when Gilda talked again, and gave up waiting, there are photos of them:
At the school ball in pink taffeta with gypsophila, laughing.
In the back seat of a VW, laughing.
Studying for School Cert exams, laughing.
Fishing in the river, laughing.
On tartan rugs at picnics, laughing.
At the airport, crying.
12.
The Attic
Standing at the window in the tower, Gilda pressed her forehead to the coldness. The old panes, fat at the bottom, distorted the overcast sky. Frost gathered in the corners like icing, even though it was late afternoon. Her headache was back, reminding her to hurry, and she felt compelled to hunt around for clues to the past, to hurry along the blackout she knew was coming. She didn’t leave a nice life in London for nothing.
She pulled off her nightie, dressed hurriedly and went down to the kitchen. She passed her aunt in the hallway, speaking on the phone — shouting the way old people do when talking long distance. Maggie got a fright when she saw Gilda, who kissed her on the cheek as she swung past into the kitchen and was pleased to see Martha sitting reading a book under a lamp. She still had her uniform on from the rest home.
‘Nice smock,’ Gilda teased, and her cousin jumped in her seat and covered the book with her arms, the way children shield their schoolwork so no one can copy.
‘What you reading?’
‘Oh nothing. Mills & Boon,’ Martha said with brisk finality as she pushed the book off the table and into her bag. The book was way too big for a penny dreadful; it looked more like an encyclopaedia. ‘I thought I should broaden my horizons,’ she added defensively, even though Gilda had not attacked.
Gilda shrugged and gave her a look. Was it wacky Wednesday? She fetched the key to the attic: heavy, solid like a promise in her hand. She squeezed it and slipped it into the back pocket of her jeans, then grinned at her cousin in a defiant, victorious way.
‘You’re up early,’ Martha said cautiously, her eyes narrowing. ‘What are you up to?’ She noted the heightened colour of Gilda’s cheeks and the contrasting darkness, like bruised fruit, under her eyes.
Gilda faltered and Martha said, with a sideways turn as if she might leap on her, ‘You’re not too big I can’t make you pee yourself. Tell me what’s up.’
‘I’m going to the attic.’ The statement surprised and excited her. Yes, she was going to the attic. She rested her buttock against the table.
‘The attic where no one has been for ages, for ever?’ Martha opened her mouth in shock. ‘Why?’
‘Because I’m not scared any more. I’m thirty. I have to grow up sometime and I’m looking for something.’
‘What?’
It all became clear to Gilda. ‘A shell box that belonged to Mum.’ She put her finger over her lips to indicate secrecy. Martha pulled her shoulders to her ears to show conspiracy.
Outside the weather was turning, the temperature dropping, darkening the room. Lightning and thunder zapped and boomed and it began to rain — flood-like rain. The radio crackled and stopped and the lights went out.
‘Oh, this is perfect,’ whispered Martha, and fetched two old-fashioned candelabras from the pantry. ‘I’m coming too.’
Gilda found matches and lit the candles, six in each holder. She put the box of matches in her pocket.
The front door slammed and a second later the ute’s engine started up.
‘Where’s Aunt Maggie going?’
‘To see a man about a dog.’
‘What man?’
‘Do you want an apple?’ Maggie chucked her one from the fruit bowl.
‘Who was she talking to on the phone — was it international?’
‘Who cares? We have our own adventure.’ Maggie bit her apple and hurried her cousin along with a jerk of the head.
Gilda grabbed a shawl off the chair by the coal range and wrapped herself in it, thinking on what secret her aunt and cousin were keeping. But she was glad she wasn’t going up to the attic alone because she was scared.
They headed towards the stairs. Martha ducked into her room and changed out of her uniform into a black jersey and black jeans.
‘You look like a burglar,’ said Gilda.
‘I’m a sleuth.’
‘You’re mad.’
‘Fine, you can be all grown up but I’m going to be a detective.’
Gilda smiled, for Martha had a way of making everything fun.
The wind whistled and howled through the gaps of the homestead. Curtains fluttered as rain turned to hail and lashed the windows like flung gravel.
Martha crashed through a cobweb and shrieked, clawing at her face. The two clung to each other, as nervous as ewes at lambing. They continued with creaking steps. Gilda’s heart thudded in time with her headache and she winced. Martha sensed it and turned. Her face, lit from beneath by the candle, cast haunting shadows, making her appear like a stranger.
‘You look like a ghost — are you all right?’ Martha asked.
‘I’m fine. Just hyper,’ replied Gilda, and pushed past Martha along the length of a passage so narrow their shoulders touched the walls on either side. At the attic door Gilda pushed the key in the lock. It clicked with ease, which she had not expected, and she pushed the door open.
Lightning illuminated the attic through the skylight, which streamed with water like a river. In the seconds of the lightning they took in the expanse of the room, which ran the entire length of the house, unstopped by internal walls. The space was packed with iron chests and old gloryboxes filled with generations of stuff. As well, there were wooden wardrobes, cardboard and wooden boxes. Rolls of fabric filled one corner and open racks of clothing were scattered about. It was a treasure trove.
Martha saw a kerosene lamp and made her way to it. ‘Chuck us the matches,’ she said, abandoning her candelabra. ‘Cor, Gilda, we could open a boutique with all this stuff!’ She blew dust off the lamp and lit it and an arc of light shed around them. Picking up the lamp she began snooping in earnest. ‘Look at all this loot!’
‘We need another one of those lamps,’ said Gilda, stepping forward with her candelabra. The candles wobbled and wax dripped on her hand.
‘You look beautiful in this light, Gilda. Like you have a halo. You should be wearing one of these gossamer gowns. She held up a coat-hanger on which hung a dress of diaphanous material the colour of whisky.
Gilda glanced at it and smiled. Her searching eyes skipped over things. There was only one thing she wanted and yet she didn’t even know if it was here.
Martha put the dress to one side as the start of her nickit-and-keep-it pile. ‘These dresses are stunning. Wouldn’t you have loved to live in the olden days?’
‘Yeah, I miss them,’ said Gilda absently.
Martha threw her a look. ‘Take off your clothes and try this on — it’s smashing. And about your size. She held up a dress of emerald satin with a low bodice and a full skirt with
a flip lining of scarlet red, the sleeves long and cut on the bias so they swept to the thigh.
Gilda touched the fabric, which was soft, almost slimy under her touch. ‘I’ve seen this before somewhere,’ she murmured, pulling the skirt wide to see the expanse of it. The hem was embroidered with little shells.
‘Yeah, right. In your dreams!’ quipped Martha, and they laughed. ‘Quick — get your gears off.’
Gilda, enchanted with the dress, placed the candelabra on the floor and peeled off her clothes to her white undies, goosebumps on her skin. Martha wolf-whistled and slipped the gown over Gilda’s head. It tugged on her ponytail. ‘Probably need a corset with this,’ said Gilda, muffled by the fabric, cool against her skin.
‘Not with your waist you don’t,’ said Martha admiringly, tugging the gown down. ‘Oh my,’ she murmured, her hazel eyes large at the sight. Martha reached out and tugged the hair-tie from Gilda’s red hair so it fell to the small of her back, thick as golden syrup, the grey streak luminous like a slash of white paint. She tightened the lacing and appraised Gilda from the front. ‘Could there be anything finer?’ she whispered.
Gilda blushed and took a few tentative steps in the gown, feeling the fabric swirl about her body, heavy and swinging. She felt regal, but also a little as though she were playing dress-ups: a dress like this belonged to a woman. And in that moment it occurred to Gilda that she was a woman — no longer a girl. The gown seemed to melt with her the way perfume is absorbed by the skin.
She noticed a vescis-shaped mirror and walked over to it. Martha followed and stood behind her with the lamp. The gown shaped Gilda’s body perfectly; her bosom, cupped by the seam, overflowed.
The storm rose a notch and the windows rattled. Lightning flooded the room, but Gilda didn’t notice. A shiver went through her as she stared at her reflection. She felt a whoop in her chest as if she had her finger on the moving glass of a ouija board.
‘Déjà vu?’ said Martha.
‘Exactly. And I knew you were going to say that … Now it’s vanished.’
‘It’ll come back. Are you okay? Shall we go?’ Martha asked, although she wanted to stay longer.
‘I’m fine.’
‘Great. Then I’m going to put on a dress too.’ Martha picked up a pair of turn-of-the-century French knickers, all lacy and embroidered and ironed before being stored, and a matching white cotton lace chemise. Then a pair of cream woollen socks that reached over her knees. Gilda sat on an old divan as Martha ran her fingers along the rack and selected a purple dress with pearl buttons.
‘Not that one,’ said Gilda and leapt up to grab the gown. In the process she knocked over the candelabra and there was a whoosh of flames. The two girls shrieked and made a dash at the fire, but hesitated over what to use — everything was too precious. The fire leapt high into the air and a peal of it, finding a fringe of carpet, sped off in two different directions. Gilda stamped on it but the fire was seconds quicker than her.
Martha, in panic, bundled up the purple dress and, on her knees, used it to try to smother the flames. But the dress caught on fire and in the flames Gilda saw a woman’s freckled face with dark, terrible eyes. Martha threw Gilda’s jeans and shawl onto the burning dress and rolled them up in a bundle until she had smothered the flames. Then she pushed past Gilda and rolled up the rug, whacking the sparks of fire until it had all gone out.
Gilda stood with one hand against her throat.
‘Let’s make a deal not to tell anyone,’ Martha whispered. ‘We’d be in so much trouble.’
‘Virgin’s honour,’ pledged Gilda, and made the fingers sign against the bridge of her nose.
Martha nodded and made the sign back. Under no circumstances could the secret be betrayed. For a moment they were the conspirators of old.
‘Sorry about your jeans,’ said Martha, poking the smouldering mess. ‘And the dress.’ She looked up at her cousin.
‘I hate that dress,’ murmured Gilda, lifting the hem of her skirt well clear of the embers and standing on them. She could feel little beads under her feet and got down on her knees. Feeling with her fingers, she lifted the scorched and partly burnt purple dress out of the fire and motioned to Martha. They peered at the beads, like tiny pearls, pulled one off and held it up to the light.
‘Oh my God,’ said Martha. ‘Let’s see.’ She rolled it between finger and thumb and pushed it around the palm of her hand. It was blunt at one end, and at the other rose to a sharp edge. ‘Is this what I think it is? Are these little teeth?’ She stared in horror.
Gilda examined the dress. There were dozens of the little beads. ‘Imagine if they were!’
‘They are, you know. A row of bloody children’s teeth. My God, they were super macabre back then, eh?’
‘Maybe the gown belonged to the tooth fairy …’ Gilda’s voice wobbled.
‘More like Minnie Dean!’
The two women looked at each other in horror.
‘Now I’m spooked,’ said Martha. ‘What kind of person would have real human teeth on their dress?’
‘It must have meant something. Like a rabbit’s foot, or necklaces of garlic.’
The cousins were quiet for a moment. The sound of the storm raged about the house and in the distance the waves heaved thrice as high and crashed on the rocks and shore, spewing up tree stumps and great tangles of seaweed. Blue smoke hung in the air.
Gilda shivered and hugged herself. The lantern spluttered, flared and went out. And in the last pulse of light Gilda saw the shell box, right by the door, as obvious as daylight.
‘Or black magic,’ said Martha into the gloom.
‘God, it’s Friday. I have to go to work.’ Gilda swept up the shell box as she left.
13.
Friday Night
The Qualm’s Arms was humming. All the women danced to the folk rock music and the lead singer, with his sunglasses on, was toasting the barmaid — Gilda. She smiled and ducked her head, yelping when Sophia pinched her on the bum.
The atmosphere and the meditation of work relieved Gilda of her own thoughts. The pain at the base of her skull she masked with paracetamol and a shot of whisky, both taken at regular intervals. She wore her hair freshly brushed and, to please Sophia, a nice gingham blouse with her jeans. No lipstick.
‘What’s wrong with him, eh? A nice rock star notch would look good on your belt!’ Sophia teased her, pulling a steaming tray of glasses out of the dishwasher.
‘I might have some competition,’ yelled Gilda, nodding at the cluster of females gyrating at the band’s feet: peroxide hair all yellow and fluffed like baby ducks, they were bending under the lights, doing their own version of the Dance of the Seven Veils. Gilda’s heart went out to them.
‘I’d say he would want a bit more class, by the looks of him. He’s like a young Mickey Rourke.’ Sophia licked her lips and reached above Gilda to hang the glasses.
‘More like Roy Orbison,’ said Gilda, cheekily poking Sophia in the ribs as she leant across the bar to hear a customer’s order.
‘Nice to see you, tits ‘n’ all,’ grinned Val, an American backpacker marooned in Riverton as if he were patiently waiting for something to happen and couldn’t leave until it did. Underneath the yankee doodle he seemed a decent bloke.
‘Eh? What you drinking, Val?’
‘What else, Gilda? Have you lost your touch?’ He grinned.
‘Place your bloody order or get out of our hair!’ boomed Sophia, slamming her hand on the bar and making Val jump. Gilda poured a pint of Speight’s and Sophia pushed the button on the till, glaring at Val. ‘Ten dollars,’ she said.
‘Huh?’
‘“Huh?” ‘ mocked Sophia. ‘Ten dollars including tip.’
Val dug in his pocket and took out a twenty-dollar note. ‘I don’t have a smaller bill,’ he said, and Sophia snatched it, put it in the till, bing. Val gazed, puzzled and hurt, at Gilda, who winked.
‘Don’t worry. I’ll give you another when you’ve finished that.’ She
looked over his shoulder to the next in line, the bar three deep in customers. ‘Tom, what’ll it be?’
‘Hi, Ginger. I’m really lining up just to say hello, like everyone else, but I guess I better get something. Got any champagne?’ His red face with the spidery broken capillaries bulged with a self-conscious smile.
‘Oh, you’re a crack, Tom. How about Pink Chardon? Been on ice since eighty-seven.’ Gilda swung around and took a bottle from the fridge. ‘How many glasses?’
‘Will you be joining me?’
‘Maybe later, Tom,’ she said, and gave him three flutes, which he linked over his fingers.
‘For you?’ she said to the next in line, as Tom moved reluctantly away, resolving to pop back when there were fewer people around. He marvelled at how much the girl resembled her mother.
The next punter shuffled forward. ‘Nice to see you back where you belong, Gilda. A glass of white, please.’ Gilda reached up and took down a wet, warm wine glass. She gave it a practised twirl against her breast to clear off the drips and poured some house white.
And so the night progressed. Gilda saw familiar faces and some strangers who insisted she had babysat/snogged/ gone to school with them.
The pub was in full swing. Older gentlemen with greased hair and high dress pants danced with their wives in their cotton dresses, swooping and gently dipping them in the old-time dance style. Others sat pot-bellied and cheery in the booths against the wall, beaming at their sons in their crisp white shirts and daughters in their tight jeans and stilettos having a ball. Flirtations flew across the room like coloured ribbons. The chandeliers were magnificent, all lit up, and the band was fantastic.
Martha was dancing by herself on the other side of the room but four men were slowly mincing in her direction — soon she would be surrounded. She looked lovely as a gypsy in jeans and the white chemise from the attic.
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