Lizzie's Tale

by Graham Wilson

  Chapter 17 - Sophie Returns

  Next morning they woke in the cool. Their mouths were dry. Lizzie rationed another sip of water, in her case she pretended to drink, taking only enough to wet her lips. Catherine was unable to help herself. She drank almost half of the water left in one swallow. But Lizzie was glad it went to her daughter, not her. She knew they could only sit and wait, hoping that someone came. They were too far into the desert to walk.

  The morning passed slowly. By lunch the thirst was much worse. She knew it was getting really hard for Catherine, brave as she was. When it seemed that the sun was about in the middle of the sky she gave her another little drink, again only wetting her own lips. Now only a dribble of water was left in the bottle, one more sip for Catherine.

  Her mind was starting to wander and, in a way, it was a relief. At first she tried to sing songs and tell stories to Catherine. But it became too hard as their mouths got sticky with the dry saliva.

  So she moved inside her head, back into the place of her own childhood, that time so long ago when all her life had seemed good and she was happy. Sophie’s face drifted into her mind, but she could not see it clearly anymore. Since that time of the dream, when she had pushed her away it was like she could not talk directly to Sophie anymore, maybe it was a growing up thing, but her mind image of Sophie was blurred, like something seen through dirty glass.

  But she remembered Sophie’s mother, Maria, really clearly on that last day when she saw her. It came as a physical jolt: Maria gave her a thing on that day, a little package, and told her she must never lose it and, one day, when she really needed it, to open the package.

  She remembered carefully sewing this small brown paper package inside the lining of her childhood purse. It had stayed there ever since. She kept this and other fragments of her childhood in a small tin box. She realised that she had brought this small box with her here.

  It was the only repository of a childhood lost too early, it contained all her childhood curios, pictures of her father, mother and David, a note from her father when she was eight – just about the shopping but it had his writing on it. There were a few other things as well, she could not think of them all now. But she was sure the purse was still there, and yesterday, when she packed up to leave she had put the box of things in the bag she brought. She did not know why she had done this, despite her panic. But it was as if, no matter what happened, she needed to hold and keep some threads which joined her to this part of her life.

  She stood up, she felt dizzy. Catherine had been lying with her head on her lap. Now she opened her eyes as she stood up and looked up at her in curious wonder. Lizzie found the bag and rummaged in it. There was the box; with hands shaking she fumbled it open.

  The purse was still there, looking old and faded, the outer leather scuffed. She opened it and saw her childish sewing. She could feel something still inside the lining. She pulled the lining out and tore at a corner until it came away. There it was; a packet of worn and faded brown paper with a small lumpy object inside.

  She came and sat back down beside Catherine, whatever it was they would share it together; hope must not be extinguished so as to keep them both brave.

  She unwrapped the package, having no idea what it was. She felt disappointment when she saw only a small silver locket. It was heart shaped, about an inch long and a bit less wide. It hung on a fine silver chain, and on the back was written, Sophie, 1906. She realised that it had a clasp at one edge which opened. Inside was a photo of a small dark haired girl.

  With a gasp she realised that this was Sophie, the Sophie of her childhood and dreams, only even smaller in this picture, she looked almost the same age as Catherine was now, though their hair and faces were different. This brought the image of the real Sophie sharp again in her mind, but with this image came a strange sort of bitterness.

  When Sophie had asked for her help she had given it, without hesitation. But Sophie had never been able to help her in return. Sure, she had tried to warn her before that awful night, but it had not stopped what happened. So what use was Sophie’s face and image when what they needed was water to drink. She closed the locket.

  She could feel tears trying to form in her eyes, even though they were too dry. She brushed these away and sat up straight, looking at Catherine, determined to not let her daughter see her despair. She looked again at Catherine sitting next to her in the red dirt, such a brave little girl in her suffering, but how could this help?

  Catherine was looking back at her with very solemn eyes. She put out her hand and spoke in a dry croaky voice, “Mummy what is that you are holding; can I have a look?”

  She passed her the locket and Catherine opened it with great seriousness. Then a beatific smile lit her face. “It is my friend Sophie; sometimes she visits me in my dreams, and the night before we went away she told me not to worry if we had to go away, she would show me a safe way to go. She is trying to tell me what to do now.”

  Catherine closed the locket and lifted it over her own head, hanging it around her neck by its flimsy silver chain. She stood up, and took Lizzie’s hand, “This way Mummy, Sophie wants us to come this way.” So Lizzie followed, her six year old’s tiny hand in her own. They walked along the road for ten minutes. They came to a shallow depression in the road, like a gully between sandy ridges.

  Now Catherine turned right and followed this depression, picking her way around clumps of spinifex. After a couple hundred yards it became a discernible dry creek bed and after a further couple hundred yards there was a low rocky ridge rising in front of them. The creek emerged from this rocky ridge and they could see more low rocky hills rising behind it, another fragment of an ancient mountain range poking its head just above the desert sand.

  They followed the creek line through a gap in the first low hill. Behind it lay a depression a few yards across before the next hill rose behind it. In this depression lay a pool of water, a few feet across. Tracks at its edges showed it was the drinking place of many small animals.

  So they drank and were refreshed. They filled up the water bottle they carried and took this water back to the car with them.

  Each day they came back for more water. Between times they sat in the little shady place they had made, under trees next to their car. They told stories, sung songs and waited. Three days passed. They rationed the biscuits and cheese, now less than half a packet of dry biscuits remained.

  Although hungry neither felt anxious, they knew that there was more to come. On the third day they heard a faint distant sound and looking north saw a plume of dust coming along the road. They heard a clattering and banging sound coming towards them along with the noise of a vehicle engine.