The First Week

by Margaret Merrilees

‘I’m sorry,’ Marian said. ‘Please say goodbye to Ros. And thanks. You know, for looking after me.’

  Waving her hand she walked quickly down the street. She had no idea where she was, just wanted to get away.

  She walked blindly, crossing roads, turning corners, passing closed shops and dark gardens, putting as much distance as possible behind her. The thin unnatural glow of streetlights was lonelier than the darkest night in the country.

  Eventually she came to a railway line and followed it to the next station. From the platform she watched the moon rise. A big old moon, past the full, petals blown.

  The people and the day whirled around her. The farm was miles away, it seemed years since Sam’s first phone call.

  It was only yesterday morning.

  This time she got the train door open without trouble, and sat down. The carriage was almost empty, except for a scruffy young man with one finger keeping his place in a Bible. With dismay she realised that he was staring at her, getting up to move closer.

  ‘Are you troubled?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Just tired.’

  ‘You can rest in the Lord, sister.’

  She stared at him, beyond resistance.

  ‘Are you easy in your mind?’

  ‘Um …’

  ‘Don’t answer at once. Take time to think. I’ll pray with you. Dear Lord, you have put us in this world of darkness and trouble to help each other. We are putty in your hands. It is not chance that we have met, here on this train. This sister is troubled. Show her the light, dear Lord. Let me help her.’

  Marian got to her feet. ‘Leave me alone,’ she mumbled. And then, with more vigour, ‘leave me alone!’

  She stumbled to the other end of the carriage, swaying with the movement of the train, and sat opposite the only other two passengers. The young man opened his Bible and began to chant and cast dark looks in her direction. To her relief, he made no attempt to follow her.

  The Bible in Charlie’s room, her Bible. Was Charlie caught up in one of these cults? Was that what all this getting involved was about? But none of the girls had mentioned God.

  Marian leaned her head against the glass and watched the pale image of her face superimposed over the passing lights beyond. Perhaps she could sit here forever, go wherever the train went.

  The two women opposite were talking loudly and took no notice of her.

  ‘You know what I did this morning? Only went to work with one sock inside out. Susie said to me, what’s with your feet? You’ve got one sock inside out. It was too. All the bubbles were facing in. I thought oh no, I must be going balmy.’ The woman laughed and thrust out one plump leg, pulling up the bottom of her pants. Sure enough, the bubbles were inside out.

  ‘Susie thinks she’s the boss because she worked on labels all week,’ the other woman said. ‘I told her that’s nothing anyway. I’ve done labels plenty of times. She said thank God I’ve only got one more week in this dump before my holidays.’

  ‘That’s awful. I wouldn’t say that.’

  ‘She’s a mongrel.’

  ‘Don’t say that. You’re terrible.’

  They both giggled.

  For the second time that day Marian wanted to trade lives, to go to work every day caring only about socks and labels.

  Her bag was safe in the locker. She retrieved it and went out into the city. A group of Aboriginal youths had gathered in Forrest Place, maybe the same group from the station that morning. Were they angry? She couldn’t read their brown faces.

  Making a wide arc around them she hurried along the other side of the square.

  The night was cold, but there were still kids spilling out of McDonalds. The last of the commuters hurried towards buses and car parks.

  A row of small shops survived near His Majesty’s at the foot of the dark office towers. Beyond them she came into a more open part of the street. The ground dropped away in front of her to a freeway, a roaring torrent of headlights disappearing into the tunnel below. She crossed above it, dwarfed, clinging to the footpath. Parliament House was floodlit on her left, its dignity undermined by the red stains of bore water on walls and paths.

  There was no one about. It was no longer a residential area. The old houses were replaced with marble-fronted, gold-plated palaces. But even here the footpaths were stained. She scuffed her toe across the cement. It was the bore water. The secret underground water. They should have left it alone.

  No amount of marble could resist the tell-tale stain.

  Lawyers, accountants, mining companies. Everyone gone home for the night or off to bars or casinos, wherever such people went. The big WA money, the new world. The squatters, the old aristocracy, were outnumbered, or converted. It wasn’t about grazing any more, not even the rich merino studs. It was mining money now.

  Piles of money. Sitting on a nice pile of money.

  Among the marble and glass were a few peeling blocks of flats and shabby terraces, survivors. But not for long. One was already boarded up.

  The CWA, to her relief, was only three storeys. A brick building, modest, ugly, with shopfronts along the street level. Racquets restrung, secretarial services, a travel agent. A neat sign on the main door announced that the Global TESOL College Info Seminar was on the third floor. Another sign promised Reception, also on the third floor.

  Marian pushed at the door but it was locked and there was no sign of a bell. In desperation she banged on the glass with her fists. Nothing happened.

  Now what?

  Don’t panic.

  She could ring Ros and Sam, go all the way back and stay there. But she shrank from the idea. Not with Lee next door.

  There must be another hotel nearby. She peered up the street. And there, at the corner of the CWA building, was a small sign with an arrow. Reception. A driveway.

  She dragged her bag around the back under the impersonal gaze of the neighbouring flats, down to a car park and a back door. The doorway was open and well lit and she paused inside, filled with gratitude. Handicrafts on the left, lounge on the right, with a framed sign in cross-stitch hanging over the sofa.

  Honour to God

  Loyalty to the Throne

  Service to the Country

  Through Country Women

  For Country Women

  By Country Women

  A sign on the door of the handicrafts shop was more succinct. CWA for Home and Country. The display cases were filled with winning entries. Beanie and Scarf. Child’s Poem—Caring for Communities.

  At the end of the hall a notice board announced bookings for the Kismet Tribal Dance Group, the Divine Service Centre and the Prosthesis Group. The Doll and Toy Club was advised to use the Board Room.

  It was a lost world, hidden away among the marble palaces.

  Beyond the notice board, a sign once more promised Reception on the third floor. This time it was accompanied by an arrow to Lift.

  A young woman was slamming down the shutter over the reception counter when Marian stepped out of the lift.

  ‘Can I help you,’ she asked, sighing.

  ‘Sorry to arrive so late,’ Marian mumbled.

  ‘Oh that’s all right. We’re used to it.’ The difficulties of organising country women seemed to overwhelm her for a moment. ‘Mrs Anditon, isn’t it? I’ve put you in 205. Down on the next floor. Breakfast’s at seven thirty. You can pay me then.’

  The corridors were long and deserted. The carpet soaked up any sound. Room 205 was at the end of a short side passage. With enormous relief Marian pushed the door shut behind her and heard the lock click.

  The room was all cream and green floral. The office buildings beyond the window were dark. The freeway, silenced by distance, still poured cars across the city. Beyond it hung a dome of flashing lights, suspended against the sky, winking at her in sequence. A message she could not understand.

  A shower would be good. She was grimy all over—eyes, skin, hair. City smog.

  Kicking off her shoes she pulled back t
he bedclothes, lay down and was asleep within seconds.

  The hallway was narrow and lined with dark hangings. No matter how far she walked, the passage still stretched ahead. Other passages intersected it. At each crossroads she could hear voices, people calling to each other in distant rooms, laughter, music, the clatter of plates and cutlery. She came to a railing that blocked the passage. Beyond it the floor opened and she could see down into the first level, some sort of boiler room, the walls lined with pipes and tanks. An industrial furnace stood to one side, its door covered with dials. But the opening was deeper than that, a gateway to desolation, levels below levels below levels, disappearing into darkness. She opened her mouth to scream.

  An eerie red glow filled her eyes. All around was silence.

  The glow resolved itself into a digital clock. Three seventeen.

  Marian was instantly, coldly awake. She knew where she was and she knew why. Charlie had killed two people and was in gaol.

  Somewhere, in another part of the city, other people were lying awake. People full of grief. The mothers, the wives? Children? Oh God, don’t let there be children.

  Pushing back the bedding she stood up. The ear she’d been lying on was deaf and she couldn’t straighten up properly. She propelled herself lopsidedly to the window and drew back the curtain. The moon had disappeared, but the dome of lights still winked at her. Like stars. Like a crown of stars.

  She pinched her nostrils and blew to clear her ears. Through the pop and crackle she could make out noises. Distant cars. People still driving around. Didn’t they ever stop? On a freezing night like this?

  Perhaps they worked at night. Factories, she thought vaguely. Did they go all night? Or hospitals. Or gaols.

  Pulling a jumper around her she went out. The passage was empty and lit only by an exit sign over the stairs. The switch was on the wall outside her door. After two flickers, the hall suddenly filled with harsh white light. She shrank back, startled, and pressed the switch off again. By feeling her way along the wall she found the toilet door and groped around to find the pedestal. If she left the door ajar she could see by the dim green light from the exit sign.

  She’d almost finished when she heard the click of a bedroom door opening. Reaching forward hastily she pulled the toilet door shut. In pitch darkness she wiped herself and flushed the toilet.

  She emerged into bright light. A woman stood clutching a pink dressing gown across her bony chest, mouth open in obvious protest, one hand raised to stave Marian off. The dressing gown fell open to reveal a faded floral nightie.

  Marian smiled weakly and fled back to her room.

  She turned on the light over the mirror and examined herself. They were Monday’s clothes, pants crumpled and twisted and shirt rucked up under her armpits. Her eyes were red rimmed and her hair wild. No wonder the old girl was scared.

  Shivering she stripped and put on a clean tee-shirt from her bag. The comfort of a clean top was immediate and she crawled thankfully back under the bed covers.

  But sleep was gone. A jumble of the day’s faces filled her mind, grimacing and telling her things. Officials, passers-by, people in shops. The woman at the truck stop, the Asian tourists. Sam, face anxious under the tufty black hair. Lee …

  Lee.

  Where was Lee when Charlie was out in the freezing dawn with a gun?

  The thought of him keeping some lonely mad vigil was so painful that she had to move, rolling over and groaning.

  And meanwhile Lee was tucked up in her cosy house with the stylish furniture.

  How come she could afford chairs like that?

  Had she known what Charlie was going to do?

  Ros had said something. Charlie’s helping Lee with a paper. For Uni perhaps.

  Or a protest.

  Marian turned on the bedside light and reached for her glasses and the envelope that Sam had given her. Some sort of magazine. Voices from the Past. And, in smaller letters, Studies in Oral History and Life Writing.

  Lee’s article was in the middle. Contact Stories.

  The mass of print swam in front of Marian’s eyes.

  … Mrs T tells a story passed on to her by her grandfather, a farm worker in the Great Southern … ‘the farmers sicced the dogs on you, he reckoned, like you was animals. No reason. If you come up to the house, asking for work and that.’

  Marian shifted impatiently, pushing the pillow further up behind her head. Of course they’d use the dogs. Word got around if you were soft, and you’d soon find yourselves short of a few chooks, or worse.

  One memory in particular stood out for Mrs T’s grandfather. He and his young brother, a boy of twelve who was working with him, had to go up to the house and wait for the food that was their only wages. It was raining, and the boy stepped onto the verandah to get out of the rain. ‘The missus, she come out and screamed at him to get off the verandah. Him and Grandpa, they had to stand in the rain.’ Mrs T remembers the pain that her grandfather still showed in telling her this story. ‘It was the way they spoke to him. You know? He couldn’t hardly talk about it, all those years later. They treated their dogs better, he reckoned. He was shamed, that he couldn’t protect his little brother.’

  Marian dropped the magazine on the duna. She didn’t have to read this. She tucked her glasses under the pillow, closed her eyes and started counting to block out the image of the boy waiting in the rain.

  … seventeen, eighteen, nineteen …

  Lee was a troublemaker. Collecting stories like that. Using them to twist the truth and make the farmers look bad.

  And she’d dragged Charlie into it too, stirred him up.

  … twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one …

  A small voice spoke clearly in her head. Charlie didn’t need Lee to stir him up.

  There was a thought that had been trying to catch up with her all evening. Ever since she’d found out that Charlie’s victims were strangers.

  If you had an argument with someone, if you were angry …

  Not that that’s any excuse.

  But at least it would make sense.

  It was the randomness of it. Didn’t he care who he hurt?

  Did he hate everyone?

  Everyone white.

  There was a noise trapped inside her chest, pushing at her ribs. If she let it out it would sound like the howl of a dog.

  Lee’s article lay on the bed beside her. Well she had to know. She, Marian, had to find out whatever there was to find out.

  It was a test.

  Even if there was no connection, she still had to think about it. If she showed enough courage about this, maybe it would make up for what Charlie had done.

  But even as the bargain took shape in her mind she knew that nothing could make up for two deaths. And who was she bargaining with anyway? Who set the test?

  She wasn’t strong enough. She was going to fail.

  She fished her glasses out from under the pillow and picked up the article.

  Mr A is seventy-seven years old. He describes his boyhood memory of the years when the land was ‘opened up’. From Mr A’s point of view, that meant a closing, not an opening. Country was shut away behind fences so that the proper business of the passing seasons was hindered, if not prevented.

  ‘Some places was all right. We could go there. But some places we got chased off. So business stopped happening, country wasn’t cared for … water, rocks and that. We had to stop in one place. I was born on the mission, christened and that. But we knew, even us kids, we knew how things was supposed to be. It worried them, the old people. How long they been looking after that country? How many thousand years? They was responsible, see? They did what they could, but it wasn’t right, not enough. Country got sick. Them wadjela didn’t know the right way. Dug things up, chopped things down.’

  This time Marian put the magazine right away from her on the bedside table and clicked off the light.

  No more.

  But an image of the old people had lodged in her brain. Was
that what they were doing, when you saw them sitting around under trees? Worrying about country?

  Country.

  Our place, they meant.

  She thought of the veggie patch, how it sat in a shallow cup on the slope. From there you could see the great arc of the sky, the clump of trees far down the front paddock, the curve of the horizon.

  Rolling onto her side she pulled the pillow up under her cheek.

  What did business mean? What was it they thought they were doing that kept the country in good shape?

  It was true, what she’d said to Lee. The Abos didn’t grow things, everyone knew that. Never stayed long enough in one place.

  Anyway, they were lazy.

  They must have known a bit though, to keep themselves fed.

  Bush tucker on TV. That was in the tropics. Fruit and things. But in the wheatbelt there wouldn’t be much, all that dry scrub. Kangaroos for meat, but you needed more than meat. Seeds and nuts perhaps?

  She shouldn’t have got angry.

  The land would have looked very different two hundred years ago of course. Where she saw a clump of trees in a cleared paddock, a sea of yellow wheat, they would have seen … what?

  All bush, anyway. And more animals, for hunting. And fresh water.

  Country got sick.

  She watched the unearthly glow of the city sky until her eyes closed.

  wednesday

  ‘No,’ she cried, struggling into wakefulness. For a moment she lay trembling, not knowing where she was. Slowly she turned her head. Beyond the open curtains the sky was not quite dark, not quite light. Maybe dawn coming, maybe only the city lights.

  Six forty-two, said the red glow beside the bed.

  She couldn’t do this. Tears pricked in the back of her nose.

  Get up, she told herself, keep moving. Don’t think.

  This time she pushed her hair straight before she left the room. Reaching the safety of the bathroom she stood under the shower in dumb gratitude, savouring the hot water on the tight strings in her neck and shoulders.

  The passage was empty but nevertheless she went on tiptoe down the stairs and past CWA for Home and Country. Outside the early morning was cold and clear. Marian walked round the building and set off briskly through the streets.