Authors: Maris Morton
If things didn’t work out, she could always leave. But how? She felt a flutter of alarm. She couldn’t remember the name or location of the nearest town. But, she told herself sensibly, there must be other people living under some of those roofs she’d seen on the way down. In a few days she’d be laughing at herself for this attack of the jitters.
I
N THE
D
OWNE HOMESTEAD,
Mary discovered a cold leg of mutton in the fridge and served a scratch meal to Martin and Paul Hazlitt. There was no suggestion that she eat with them. The men consumed their food without comment, and after they left the house Mary ate her own meal. Now that she was alone, she felt like crying.
Paul Hazlitt was just as good-looking — and just as silent — as his son. There’d been no sign of Mrs Hazlitt. Maybe she was still in hospital. Neither man had mentioned her. Apart from the men the house felt deserted. Shabby, too, what she’d seen of it, and dirty. It was a far cry from the gracious homestead of her imaginings.
Martin had gone off somewhere and left her to find her own way into the house. There had been a girl there, but after introducing herself as Gayleen, and giving Mary a quick tour of the kitchen, she’d had to go home to help her mother. She was very young, probably still at school. A pretty kid, though, with a rosebud mouth and natural ash-blonde hair, eyes and lashes darker than you’d expect. Mary guessed that her family occupied one of the other houses she’d seen from the air.
She leant back in her chair and rubbed her hands over her face. It was no use moping. After she’d cleaned up the kitchen, she’d go and explore the house. She might even come across the elusive Mrs Hazlitt, if such a person really existed.
Gayleen had shown her the huge pantry, stocked with preserves, pickles and jams, canned and dry goods. This had been the first piece of good news. There were freezers, too, and a vegetable garden, chooks and even a milking cow, as well as farm-killed mutton and lamb. At least she wouldn’t starve.
The house was an old one built of dark bricks, with an iron roof, wide verandahs and a passage up the middle. She’d come in through the back door, so she didn’t know what the rest of the house was like. Except for the room where she’d be sleeping. That had been another disappointment: a louvred sleepout off the back verandah, cold as charity, with an old iron bed and sagging wire mattress base, a mile from the sole bathroom that was inside the house. She couldn’t do anything about that, but she would see what she could do about the bed. Later.
On the plus side, the kitchen had a big bay window at one end, a dining table long enough to seat ten, a good old slow-combustion stove next to a modern electric range. It was light and warm, and there seemed to be a plentiful supply of hot water. Dirty, though, and with an unpleasant smell, but she could fix that. It looked as if nobody had cleaned the place for months.
I
N HER ROOM,
Clio Hazlitt lay in a nest of pillows, feeling her way towards consciousness.
In the distance, she could hear someone moving about, a creaking board, a door closing, must be the night nurse — no, not that, those floors were vinyl, grey and unforgiving, but they didn’t creak. The cleaners dragged those big industrial polishers over them every morning, the black-haired women in pink uniforms, none of them speaking English. In the ward, there was always the smell of food. Eating. Not the pleasure it once was.
This time the smell was wrong, too: no antiseptic, no boiled cabbage, no body smells.
She breathed carefully, not to hurt her wound. The sounds weren’t right, either. No clatter of trolleys, no squeak of rubber soles on shiny vinyl. No bells, no running feet. No nurses chattering. No urgency, no panic.
Where was she? What room was this? She’d lost all the old landmarks. She’d lie still and wait until she recognised some shape, some light and shadow, some clue of scent or sound.
She could remember the train rattling through the darkness, the syncopated ticking of the wheels, ghostly reflections of faces on the window floating across the black night outside, distorted, like caricatures, among them her own, barely recognisable. Then the screeching halt and painful getting to her feet, stiff after sitting so long, finding her things, steadying herself, anxious to get out in time and not be carried on, and Garth’s welcoming smile bright in the island of fluorescent light on the station, waiting, whistling, pacing on the gritty platform, swinging his arms, keeping warm. His face was full of kindness, a white-lit man-in-the-moon holding back the darkness.
They’d driven through the black night along the tunnel carved by their headlights’ high beam, the ute swaying on the bends and making her lean to her damaged side so that she had to bite her lip to hide the pain. Garth hadn’t noticed, peering out through the dusty windscreen, eyes fixed on the double white line, alert for roos and emus and rabbits.
It had still been dark when they’d arrived, and she’d been too tired to take anything in, just staggered to the house, dropped into bed and fallen asleep.
Under the duvet she touched her body, but with caution. Yes, she knew what this thick fleecy fabric was: the tracksuit she’d travelled in. Hadn’t had the energy last night to change. She flexed her toes: must have kicked off the ugg boots, at least; thank heaven for that.
Since the surgery, each awakening was like a struggle to be born again. Everything was alien, her own body included. Her flesh belonged to a stranger; a body that had to be explored, courted, tested afresh, each time she woke. She lifted her head from the pillow — not too quickly, it might hurt — and she wasn’t dreaming: she was in her own room, just as she’d left it, a lifetime ago. Relief flooded her like tears.
She lay still and listened to the sounds of the house. Rain, softly pattering on the roof; the inevitable wind, streaking up from the South Pole, sighing through the distant pines; it must be afternoon. The light seeping through the closed curtains confirmed this. She drew a shaky breath. They’d told her she might be a bit weepy. Well, she was.
There was definitely somebody moving about the house — a soft footstep, a creak of floorboards. Who would that be? Not Paul or Martin, the steps were too light. She let the question slide away.
The trip had been a horror. She ought to have stayed in Perth till she had her strength back. Every cell in her body felt outraged. But she’d been desperate to get back home. Home! That was a laugh. But it was the only home she had, and she’d be comfortable here, in this room. She made herself relax while she carried out the audit of her body. All of it ached. The wound was too sore for her to touch, still raw where they’d taken the drains out. Her arm was numb where she must have been lying on it. She flexed her wrist. Winced. Tried again, more cautiously. Gritted her teeth and did it again. Panting, she let her head relax onto the pillow.
She’d have to get up sometime, have a shower. Do the exercises, creeping hands up the tiles, left hand, right hand, till she wanted to scream with the pain. Be a good girl. Do what they’d told her and she’d be better in no time. Or so they said.
Later. She was too tired for that now.
She was home. Someone would come. Just wait quietly, and maybe sleep some more. Someone would come. It would be all right.
M
ARY FINISHED CLEANING
the kitchen floor. She’d uncovered a pattern of slate-blue and cream squares connected by small red diamonds, bright as spilt blood. A coat of polish would help, but she couldn’t find any. She checked the time: best get her own quarters organised.
The mattress on the iron bed was an old kapok one, its striped ticking marked with brown stains that hinted at leakages of unimaginable body fluids. Mary concealed it with a dusty cotton blanket, tucking it under firmly. She wondered if there was a linen cupboard: in a house of this vintage there was bound to be. She found it just outside the bathroom. Pleated piles of white cotton sheets, old and heavy with the scents of mildew and lavender, yellowed on the folds. She took two and rummaged for blankets. Given the austerity of the sleepout she picked warm colours: a soft ochre and a pink. On the top shelf she found a blue eiderdown, dotted with white daisies. It was a tad musty — but never mind that. And another blanket perhaps to go over the mattress? If today’s weather was anything to go by, she’d be needing it.
Laden, she went back to the sleepout and shook out the folded linen and made up the bed, sneezing at the dust that flew from the blankets. A mean breeze sneaked in through the louvres and whistled around her ears, but it would blow away some of the mustiness, and when she’d finished making up the bed she’d be sleeping warm, if nothing else. Plenty of food and a warm bed: it could be worse.
She was busy at the sink when Paul and Martin came in for their evening meal. As they passed through the back verandah she sensed them pause, then heard the soft scuff of feet in thick wool socks. They’d left their boots out there; just as well. She heard them head for the front of the house, the sound of a shower running, a vibration of water in the pipes that ran through the water jacket in the stove, and the pressure pump that must be somewhere up in the roof switched itself on.
She’d finished the kitchen clean-up by the time they came back, shaven and scrubbed, wet hair combed flat, in creased shirts, woollen sweaters and trackie bottoms tucked into calf-high ugg boots. A whiff of a pleasant aftershave followed them to the table, to be swallowed up by the smell of toasted cheese as she dished up the meal. She’d made macaroni cheese, the starchiness soothing and relaxing, topped with chopped bacon, cornflake crumbs and grated cheddar. They surveyed the food and inhaled its aromas. She waited for them to take the edge off their hunger before approaching the table.
Paul looked up as he reached for the serving spoon to help himself to more. ‘I see you cleaned the floor.’
Encouraged that he’d noticed, Mary nodded. ‘Actually, there are a few things I need to ask you.’ She was feeling unaccountably nervous. ‘If I don’t know what you expect I won’t be able to do the job here properly.’ She made herself smile into Paul’s grey eyes, looking for a trace of rapport, but there was none. ‘I’m not a mind reader. That would cost you a lot more.’
Paul didn’t acknowledge her attempt at humour but held her eyes while Martin ladled more food onto his plate, the smell of hot cheese hanging in a fragrant cloud over the table.
‘Fair enough,’ Paul said. ‘Sit down and ask away.’
‘Thanks,’ Mary said, sitting. ‘Now, I’ve got a list of things: first, what do you do about shopping?’
‘Phone Pauline at the Co-op and tell her what you want and it comes out on the bus.’
That wasn’t very helpful. ‘Where’s the Co-op?’
Paul looked at her as if she were stupid. ‘Glendenup.’
‘Okay. Where’s Glendenup?’ How was she supposed to know?
Paul indicated with his fork. ‘That way. Sixty kays.’
A long way to get to the shops. ‘And …’
‘Phone’s in the office. There’s a machine. You don’t have to answer it.’ He nodded to indicate the next room along, which Mary hadn’t yet discovered. A transient thought creased Paul’s forehead. ‘Better phone and tell Pauline who you are.’
‘Good idea.’ She could do without Pauline at the Co-op in faraway Glendenup thinking she was some kind of thief. ‘And the bus leaves it … where?’ She had visions of bundles of groceries dropping like emergency aid from a parachute.
‘Gloria drives the bus.’
Mary was still mystified. ‘What bus?’
‘School bus. The high school’s in Glendenup.’
‘And Gloria?’
‘Garth’s wife. Gayleen’s mother. You met Gayleen?’
Light dawned. ‘Yes.’
‘Good. What else?’
‘I’ll need to stock up on cleaning things. You seem to be well-off for food.’
‘There should be a bit of beef left in the freezer, as well as the mutton. You find the meat room?’ He nodded towards the pantry, and Mary made a mental note to look further. ‘We don’t keep pigs, so if you want ham or bacon, get it from town.’ He pushed his plate away. ‘I don’t mind a roast of pork.’ He looked up at her again. ‘We have dinner in the middle of the day — meat and veg, pudding, maybe soup, seeing it’s winter. A cooked breakfast at eight, dinner around twelve-thirty, tea around six. We generally finish tea with bread and jam, or any pudding that’s left over from dinner. Okay?’
Mary got up and went to find bread, jam, butter, plates and cutlery. ‘As long as I know,’ she said, trying to remember where she’d seen the jam.
When they’d finished eating, Mary cleared their dishes away and sat down to her own meal. She wasn’t hungry but knew she must eat. They hadn’t invited her to watch television with them or made any suggestions about how she might spend her evenings — and sitting with two silent men wasn’t a compelling option.
There was still no sign of Mrs Hazlitt. Should she ask? Or would it seem nosy? Tomorrow, if the woman hadn’t materialised by lunchtime, she’d ask Paul. But for now, she’d done enough for one day.
The wind had dropped and the night was absolutely still. Looking out through the louvres in her sleepout Mary could see nothing, not even a pinpoint of light in the ocean of darkness; just the reflection in the dusty glass of her own face and the room’s bright interior. Her breath condensed on the cold glass and she wiped it away. Her fingers made tracks in the moisture and dust and she wrote there a big
M
for Mary, her mark.
M
ARY FINISHED WITH BREAKFAST
, thought about dinner — she’d have to get used to thinking of the midday meal as dinner — and scrubbed down the table and benchtops. In her own room, she swept away the dust and grit and cobwebs of ages. She found a vacuum cleaner in the linen cupboard and worked her way along the strip of carpet that ran the length of the central passage. The boards showing on either side looked like jarrah; if they were, they’d polish to a rich plum burgundy. All the joinery was jarrah, too, doors and architraves and skirting boards, all dull with dust and neglect. At the far end of the passage was a pair of doors ornamented with leadlight in amethyst, pink and amber, with a matching panel set above the transom and narrow panes each side.