by Joy Dettman
‘I doubt it’s the smart ones that survive. I think it comes down to luck, my love.’
Only the rush of wind then, only the noise of the road to challenge the silence for the remainder of the journey.
Dee and Peter Williams, their neighbours, had the boys tonight. They swapped babysitting services. One by one, David carried blanket-wrapped bundles to their own beds. Only one eye opened.
‘Lipe sayba,’ Tristan the tyrant said.
‘Tomorrow. It’s bye-bye time now.’
‘In dere. Lipe sayba, Mummy. In dere.’
Ann kissed him, tucked him into his cot and slid the rail high. It was a large cot. He hadn’t learned to climb out yet. Not quite.
‘Lipe sayba!’
‘Shush. Tomorrow we’ll find it. Hush now. You’ll wake your brothers.’
‘What’s his life saver?’ David asked.
‘God and Tristan know, and maybe Dee. She said she couldn’t get him to stay down so she let him watch television until he dropped. Do you want a cup of tea?’
‘Not particularly. I’ve eaten too much. Did they say how long your father had been dead?’
‘No more than – no,’ she said, her eyes wandering the kitchen cum family room, unchanged since the house had been built. Same tiles on the floor, same clock on the wall, same fridge. A large room. Room to walk. She walked.
‘Sit down and talk to me.’
‘I feel wound up, restless.’ She tossed the red and gold scarf onto the back of a chair and removed her earrings, released her hair from the band and her fingers massaged her scalp. ‘Go to bed, David. It’s been a long day.’ He reached out a hand and she took it, looked at a chair, then shrugged. ‘They’ll be up and rampaging in five hours. Get some sleep while you can.’
‘But will you?’
‘I will, but later. I’ll crawl into Mandy’s bed when my legs are ready to lie down.’
That was her place when she was restless. Narrow bed with its hand-worked quilt, the revolving nightlight that made patterns on the walls.
He held her to him and kissed her brow. Perhaps she’d sleep in Mandy’s bed. Perhaps she’d walk the silent house all night too, and tomorrow the half-moons beneath her eyes would be dark.
‘It may not be him, my love. Have you considered that?’
‘In a way I hope it is him,’ she said. ‘In a way. I know it sounds callous – and I don’t mean it to, but he’d be at peace, David.’
‘Try to stop thinking about him and get some sleep,’ he said and left the room.
She walked. Walked to the sink, filled the jug, then shook her head. She didn’t want a cup of tea. Didn’t want to think about her father either.
She’d told her last lie for him and for May at the inquest. Pregnant with Benjamin at the time, she’d been ill, head aching, back aching all of the long day. And when it was done she’d walked away from May, vowing that from that day forward there would be no more Narrawee. For her, the property and those who lived there would not exist.
Then May had telephoned when Ann had been newly pregnant with Matthew.
‘I know you don’t want to speak to me, sweetheart, and I do understand completely, but I’m out of my mind with worry. Have you seen your father?’ she’d said.
‘You know he wouldn’t come back here, Aunty May.’
‘He’s been drinking again and he’s disappeared, Ann. I haven’t heard from him in three months. There are things that . . . has your mother heard from him?’
‘He won’t come back here.’
‘Where else would he go?’
‘I don’t know and I don’t want to know. He’s Sam now, and Sam has got to be your problem.’
‘I can’t report him missing, Ann. God knows who they’ll find.’
‘Will it never end, Aunty May? Will it never go away?’
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Forgive me for troubling you, sweetheart.’ May had wept then, and Ann had waited, waited for the tears to end. ‘I miss you so much, my dear, dear child. I have no one if not you. No family. No one. I feel so alone. So afraid.’
‘I’m pregnant again, and I’m happy about it this time. David is happy and it’s been a long time since we’ve dared to . . . to hope. I’m sorry, but I don’t want to know if he comes back or if he doesn’t come back. And I . . . I don’t want to be cruel to you, but please don’t call me again, Aunty May. Please. It just brings it all back.’ She had hung up and left May weeping.
So cruel. How had she become so hard?
Self-preservation, that’s how.
After Mandy’s death she had lost over a week of her life. She’d been at her baby’s funeral, had been looking at the flowers and the small white coffin and then . . . then nothing. She’d been nowhere.
Like a one-dimensional shadow on the wall she’d watched a world she was no longer a part of. And when she had somehow rejoined the world from a hospital bed, she had no memory of how she had come to be there.
So much fear had followed that awakening. Blind, black fear. For weeks afterwards life in this house with David had felt like a temporary reprieve. For months she’d moved within these walls afraid to be alone, in fear of her own mind, and of the other one, the Little Annie she had always believed to have shared a part of her mind.
Fear had sent her back to Dr James, a Sydney psychiatrist she’d spoken to briefly after Mandy’s death. She’d kept her appointments with him, and she’d learnt to speak to him of her fear, and of Mandy. He’d helped too, but there was so much she could not tell him, and in the latter months he’d known it.
You said that you had been watching the television with Liza just prior to her death, Mrs Taylor. Can you remember what you were watching?
She couldn’t tell him about the midday movie, about a redheaded man on a motorbike who had stolen a little girl’s dog, because she’d already told him that the gardener had ridden a motorbike, and that he’d had sandy-red hair.
Were you enjoying the film?
Yes.
Was Liza enjoying it?
She liked television.
Can you remember what it was that made you leave the house that day, why Liza went to the cellar?
No.
I believe you can if you try, Mrs Taylor. Try to remember.
She didn’t need to try. Since waking in that hospital bed she had remembered the day of Liza’s death in detail, but she could not speak of Sam and the new kittens in the cellar.
Time and time again Dr James had turned the conversation back to the television and to the gardener.
What was the gardener doing when your aunt left the house that day?
I don’t remember.
Was he mowing the lawn? Pruning the roses? Digging?
I don’t remember, I said.
Was he tall, short, thin, stout?
I don’t remember!
Or don’t wish to share those memories with me, Mrs Taylor?
It was her final appointment with Dr James that convinced her she must cut her ties with Narrawee. She’d spoken to him two days before the inquest into Liza’s death.
You obviously loved your aunt. How did you feel about your uncle?
I . . . I had little to do with him.
How do you feel about him now?
I don’t want to talk about Narrawee. Can we move on to something else?
You said you had been feeling restless, not sleeping well this past week. Do you think this might be due to having to attend the inquest, or possibly because you will see your aunt and uncle there?
I don’t know. If I knew why, then I wouldn’t be here, would I? Can we please change the subject?
We keep coming up against that same brick wall. I believe there are many unresolved issues associated with Narrawee and your uncle. And they will not be resolved until we can get beyond that self-constructed brick wall, Mrs Taylor.
I saw my sister killed, buried there. That’s the wall and that’s all.
You said that your aunt was gone for only
a short period of time that day.
I was six years old. I was watching television and I didn’t wear a watch. I don’t know how long she was gone.
Do you consider it odd that the couple who manage the two properties were not aware that Sam and May had employed this elusive gardener?
Do you tell your cleaning lady when you employ a new receptionist?
Would you leave two young girls in the care of a casual male employee, Mrs Taylor?
I don’t have two girls. I don’t have – Will you stop this. Please.
Who killed Liza, Mrs Taylor?
Ann had not made another appointment, aware that sooner or later she’d scream out the truth of that day. So May Burton was as much a victim as she, but Ann could not cure the world’s ills. During the months prior to Little Ben’s birth it had been hard enough to live with her own ills and Johnny’s, with David’s. He’d had to go to work each day. He couldn’t hide at home. Such bad months, those.
They’d gone down to the inquest and survived it, and since that call from May there had been no further contact.
Where had Jack Burton gone to after leaving Narrawee? What had he lived on? Had May given him access to Narrawee money, or had he been dead within days of leaving May? Murdered? Buried in that shallow grave?
Matthew was now four. There were twenty-two months between him and Benjamin, and she’d been in the very early stages of pregnancy the night May had phoned. If her father had left Narrawee three months prior to May’s call, then it was almost five years since he’d been sighted. Had her father returned to Mallawindy? Had Johnny seen him and –
She couldn’t complete that question.
Johnny hated him. Always had. The day he’d left home he’d attacked him. Ellie had pulled him off, dragged the weapon from his hand.
I’ll call May tomorrow, she thought as she walked down the hall to Mandy’s room. Tomorrow. Or maybe . . . maybe it would be better not to start it up all over again.
She stripped to briefs and bra and slid beneath the light quilt. The pillow was too flat. She shook it up and tucked it beneath her head.
Tomorrow.
No. She’d call Ben tomorrow. That’s what she’d do. See if May had received his message, returned his call. If he hadn’t heard, she’d give Ben the Toorak number. Yes. She rolled onto her side. That was the way to go. Call Ben. Leave it to reliable Ben.
He’d wiped Jack Burton from his mind, his life, twenty years ago. They’d lived in the same town, but never spoken. Always stronger than he’d looked, was Ben. He’d got up on the dance floor tonight with Bron, and then with the bridesmaids. Lucky, lucky Ben, no secrets to hold him to the past. Lucky Bron too. All of those lucky people who didn’t have to live with lies.
Poor Johnny. It was her fault. Poor mixed-up Johnny.
She rolled onto her back again, pulling the quilt high.
Scent of Mandy in this quilt, in this room. Soft golden curls and blue, blue eyes. Perfect baby limbs. Swim like a fish. Climb like a monkey. So full of love, there had been no room for fear in sweet Mandy.
Mummy, what work does bees do?
Mummy, why does Tiddy have got one, two, free, four legs and a tail?
Mummy, can them stars all fall down sometimes and hit my head?
‘Shush, baby,’ she said. ‘Sleep now. Mummy’s here. Sleepy-bye time.’
The birds had gathered in the trees across the road to sing their early morning song before she slept, but small boys do not sleep late.
the never-ending story
Sunday 10 August
Jeff Rowan, in full uniform, knocked at Ben’s front door on Sunday morning. Police work didn’t allow for a day of rest, and these days he had work to do.
‘I’ve got to get you down to Daree this morning, Mrs B, or they’ll be up here looking for you,’ he said when Ellie peered through a narrow gap.
‘I’m going to church, and I’m late,’ Ellie spoke around two long, fine hairpins. She had dressed hurriedly, having slept like a log last night, and without the aid of Bessy’s pill. The boys hadn’t woken her when they’d left to do the milking. She glanced beyond the lawman to the clouds, black with rain, her fingers twisting a single plait into a convoluted topknot, pinning it high while holding the door wide with her foot. ‘It feels too cold to rain, doesn’t it?’ she said.
Jeff shrugged, watched her hands. The topknot seemed to weigh heavier today. ‘So, what time will you be through, Mrs B?’
‘I’ll be home by twelve.’
‘I’ll pick you up at twelve then.’
‘No thank you, Jeff.’
‘Look, I’m not my own boss here, you know, Mrs B. I’ve been told to get you down there and it’s no good trying to put off the inevitable. You’ve got to go and talk to them, like it or not. I’ll give Daree a call and tell them I’ll have you there at half-past twelve.’
‘Bessy will drive me down. She was going to take me tomorrow anyway. I can’t see why they can’t wait until tomorrow. It’s not Jack they’ve found.’
‘Well, let’s hope your right, if . . . if that’s what you’re hoping. I’ll talk to you again after church.’
Only a handful of people had braved the chill this morning, and Father Fogarty wasn’t at his best. He was getting too old for it, Ellie thought. Bessy wasn’t at her best either, which might teach her not to drink wine. She’d taken two aspros before they’d left for church. She took two more before they left for Daree, and two more when she got there. And after all that, the police wouldn’t let her into the interview room.
They closed the door on Bessy then offered Ellie a glass of water. She drank most of it before allowing herself a brief, fearful glance at the three men who had followed her into the room. Only one was dressed like a policeman. The other two were probably the men from Sydney. They wore ordinary clothes, but they looked like Sydney police – or like Sydney police looked on the television shows she liked to watch.
Unaware that she never responded to any given situation without permission, most of their questions had to be asked twice before she’d offer a nodded yes, or a head-shaking no. She murmured a few times, ‘I’m sure I don’t know, officer.’ Then the taller one stood, so Ellie stood and smiled, believing the interview was at its end.
But he took up a box, and from the box he removed two plastic-wrapped parcels.
Ellie had always loathed having her soiled linen aired in public places, but these men were flaunting some of it. They showed her a pair of underpants, sealed in plastic. They were Bonds, but the size had worn away. They could have been Jack’s. She blushed a deep pink and she sat again.
They showed her a sock in a matching plastic bag. Her mouth fell open and her heavy lidded eyes grew wide with disbelief. The sock was black, if impregnated with red earth. She reached out a hand to take it, then quickly drew the hand back.
‘Jack always wore woollen socks. Nylon made his feet sweat. He always wore pure woollen socks.’
‘It’s pure wool, Mrs Burton. Probably Holeproof.’
Jack had liked Holeproof socks. They were expensive and he’d liked expensive things. She stared at the sock as she shrank low in her chair, her hand reaching for her apron pocket. No apron. No pocket today. She opened her handbag to touch her rosary beads, then, to prove she had another reason for opening her bag, removed a handkerchief. Her chin down, she closed her eyes and moved away to the side of her chair, twisting her handkerchief corner, unable to meet the eyes of the watching men. When they started again with their questions, her eyes remained down as slowly she told of the night it had all begun.
‘Annie and Bronwyn drove down when they heard about the police finding Liza’s body. Then later on, after we’d had something to eat, Bronwyn went over to Mr Fletcher’s, our neighbour’s house, to phone Nick, her husband. Since yesterday. They got married yesterday. Down here. In Daree. Nick’s family live in Daree.’
‘Bronwyn is your youngest daughter, Mrs Burton?’
‘Yes. Well, Jack came home
while Bronwyn was over there phoning. He got a lift home with Jeff, our policeman. Jack and Annie got into an argument, so I went outside to stand on the verandah.’
‘A heated argument, Mrs Burton?’
‘No, it was . . . was just . . . normal. For them. They were always arguing when they got together, which wasn’t very often, thank goodness. I used to tell her not to argue, but Annie always had a mind of her own. Too much alike, they were, they never got along.’ She wiped at her mouth with her handkerchief, glanced up, then back down to her handbag.
‘So they argued.’
‘Yes.’
‘And . . .?’
‘Then this other car came driving up and I went out to the yard to see who it was, and then the house lights went off. I thought it was the lightning. There was thunder rolling around for hours that night. Anyway, I thought it had struck a power pole. It often happens and we get cut off for hours.’
‘The car . . .?’
‘It was Johnny and David. Annie’s husband. I didn’t recognise them in the dark until David spoke. You could have knocked me down with a feather when I saw Johnny. I was so pleased to see him. He hadn’t been home in years and years, you see. We just . . .’ Her hand shook as she picked up the glass of water. She drank in gulps.
‘If you could continue, Mrs Burton.’
‘Well, we sort of didn’t come in for a while. Then we came inside and I started looking for candles in the sideboard. I always keep candles. It was David who noticed that Mr Fletcher’s lights were still on, so he checked the fuse box, and he found out the lights had been turned off at the main. So we turned all the lights back on.’
‘Your daughter and husband? Where were they at this time, Mrs Burton?’
‘We didn’t know where they were. Then I noticed that Jack’s gun was gone.’ She swallowed, considered the glass of water. It was empty. ‘We started looking for them, calling out for them. Outside. We looked everywhere. Bronwyn came back, and Mr Fletcher came after her. We all called to Annie and Jack. Then Bronwyn ran over to Bessy’s place, over Ben’s bridge. They weren’t over there. A bit later the rain came pelting down and I went back inside, and after a while the others came in. The rain was like thunder on the roof and we could hardly hear ourselves talking. Then Annie just came walking into the kitchen looking like a drowned rat, her hair plastered to her head, dress plastered to her back. I asked her where her father was, and she said, “Gone”.’