Authors: Maris Morton
All the doors lining the passage were shut. She counted them: there were six. The one nearest the kitchen would be the office, if Paul’s signal last night had been any indication. A front parlour? The house would probably have a formal lounge. She propped the wand of the vacuum cleaner against the wall and tugged at the front door. Outside, dry leaves were woven in a mesh of spider webs.
She went to the edge of the verandah and looked out. In the middle distance a ragged line of pine trees loomed dark against a pale blue sky. Had there been a road here once? The tiled front steps had a classical urn set on either side, crowned with withered foliage. A path headed for a timber arch that was almost hidden under a thatch of vegetation. Beyond the archway, apart from the pines, there was nothing but acres of green grass. The cold air carried the bleating of distant sheep, and their smell, too, but she couldn’t actually see any. Shivering, she went back inside.
The doors along the passage were decorated with touch plates in art nouveau style with the profile of a maiden with flowing hair. She was admiring these, guessing that they were made of copper and thinking that with a polish they’d look stunning against the dark wood, when the door in front of her swung open.
She stepped back, stumbling over the vacuum cleaner and dislodging the propped wand. It clattered down in slow motion while she grabbed for it.
‘Who are you?’ The woman’s voice was deep, with a husky edge as if she hadn’t used it for a while, but there was no mistaking the hostility. ‘What are you doing in my house?’
Mary straightened, wishing she could disappear. The woman was wearing something long and white, made luminous by the sunlight coming through from the room behind, giving her the air of an avenging angel. Mary couldn’t see her face; it was in shadow. She was tall, though, and Mary sensed in her some strong emotion, held in check with an effort.
‘Well?’ the woman demanded. She was steadying herself against the doorframe, but swaying, ever so slightly, or trembling.
This must be Mrs Hazlitt, and Mrs Hazlitt was not expecting to see a stranger in her house. Mary kept her voice low and steady. ‘My name’s Mary Lanyon. Mr Hazlitt employed me to help with the housekeeping until you’re well again.’
Mrs Hazlitt was scrutinising Mary’s face. ‘I don’t know you. I’ve never seen you before in my life. You’re not from around here.’ She made it seem as if not being a local were some kind of crime.
Mary made the effort to smile, offering it as an appeasement signal. ‘No, you’re quite right. I live in Perth. I flew down with Martin yesterday.’
Mrs Hazlitt took this in, nodded and turned away, her body drooping as if the confrontation had been too much for her. She stopped, glanced back at Mary. ‘Since you’re here, you could get me something to drink.’ This sounded like a command, but then her voice wavered and became almost wistful. ‘I’ve been dreaming of fresh orange juice. Could you fetch me some?’
Mary thought fast. Had she seen orange juice in any of the fridges? Could she borrow some from the unknown Gloria?
‘The oranges’ — the woman gestured — ‘should be ripe. It’s nearly August, isn’t it? They start to ripen in August. Could you go and have a look? Please?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Mrs Hazlitt retreated into her room, closing the door. Mary made a note of which one it was and set out in search of the orange trees.
Well, that was Mrs Hazlitt! No Mrs Rochester there, anyway, although there was something queer about her: either she was really sick, or she was a drama queen. But she had said please.
Mary located the orange trees, along with mandarins, lemons and grapefruit, all laden with ripening fruit. The trees were old and formed a dense hedge beside the house. She tugged and twisted off half-a-dozen of the ripest fruit, icy cold and still wet with dew.
In a kitchen cupboard Mary found a lemon squeezer and an assortment of glasses, some of cranberry glass, some pale green and others speckled with gold. She strained the juice into a flute with a gold rim.
The door of Mrs Hazlitt’s room was still shut, and she knocked gently and went in. The woman was in bed, lying on her side looking out through french doors to the sunlit garden. When Mary’s shadow fell across her she raised her head, and for the first time Mary saw her face clearly. Her skin was the greyish white of old paper, with lines etched around her eyes, mouth and nose. Under her eyes were dark smudges; above them, strong arching brows that matched the mass of black hair, stranded with grey, spread over the white pillows. Like one of Klimt’s sirens, Mary thought, startled; but one that was old and sick. The siren looked up at her with eyes that were bottomless pools of blackness. Mary had never seen eyes so dark. Her lips were dry and pallid, and to speak seemed to be an effort.
‘Thank you,’ Mrs Hazlitt said, and struggled to sit up. She noticed the fancy glass. ‘Nice.’
‘I put some sugar in,’ Mary told her. ‘It was pretty sour. What would you like to eat? I understand you’ve been ill?’
Mrs Hazlitt put the empty glass down. ‘That was wonderful,’ she said, licking the taste of orange from her lips with a pale tongue. ‘Will you cook special things for me?’
‘Of course. What would you like?’
Mrs Hazlitt let her head fall back on the pillow. ‘I have little appetite. I’ll leave it to you. But very small serves, please. And I need to sleep a lot. The trip back tired me out. Maybe something later this afternoon? I don’t want to interfere with your cooking for my husband and Martin. They’re both here?’
Vagueness might be a symptom of her illness. ‘Yes. So, if I get you something around five, before they come in, would that suit you? You don’t want anything now?’
‘Just sleep. The orange juice is all I need for now.’ She lay against the pillows and closed her eyes. Mary took the hint. There would be time to look around this room later. Her first impression was that it was quite different from the rest of the house: modern, luxurious and, but for a light film of dust, clean. And Mrs Hazlitt was occupying the only bed in the room — a single one.
P
AUL WAS OUT
for the day playing golf. When Martin came in for his dinner, Mary told him she’d met his mother.
Martin looked up, his face showing more animation than she’d seen so far, almost a boyish eagerness. ‘Did you? She all right?’
Mary wondered why he hadn’t been in to find out for himself. ‘I have no idea what she’s like when she’s well.’
‘No, I suppose.’ He seemed to consider what he should tell this housekeeper. ‘She’s … she always used to be doing something,’ he said finally. ‘Cooking or making something. Did you go in her room?’
‘Briefly.’
‘She’s got her music in there.’
The note of censure in his voice made Mary curious.
‘You don’t like music,’ she said.
‘I don’t mind it. Dad can’t stand it, though. That classical stuff Mum likes.’
Mary let that go. ‘How long has your mother been sick?’ She hoped the question was impersonal enough to rate an answer, but Martin seemed eager to talk.
‘It’s months now. Seems ages. She just said she’d have to go up to Perth to get something fixed. Dad said it was probably some kind of woman thing.’ He looked at her seeking enlightenment, but she couldn’t help.
Mary was intrigued. Maybe Paul and his wife hadn’t wanted to worry Martin. ‘Was she in hospital up there?’
‘Yeah. For ages.’
It must have been something serious. While it was no concern of hers, Mary’s curiosity was piqued. Anyway, she rationalised, she’d be able to do a better job of looking after the invalid if she understood what was wrong. But, plainly, neither of the Hazlitt men was going to tell her any more; at least, not yet.
A
FTER DINNER,
Mary went exploring outside. It was good to get out of the house, with its smells of dust and secrets, and into the bracing fresh air.
There was a wire fence, probably to keep the sheep out, and within it were the remains of a comprehensive vegetable garden. There was a row of corrugated iron rainwater tanks, and a gnarled creeper festooning the length of the verandah. At one end was the concrete dome of a big underground water tank, and a long bed that ran the length of the house seemed to be an orchard of deciduous fruit trees. There was also a herb bed with flourishing parsley, mint and chives, and sere remains of other herbs that may or may not revive when spring came. The parsley was a bonus, though, and a bay tree so tall that at first sight she’d failed to recognise it.
Beyond the citrus hedge, there was another house. Mary pushed her way through the foliage, careful to avoid spiders. There was no smoke coming from the chimney, no sound or movement, but there were wheel tracks worn through the carpet of fine grass. It looked older than the house she was staying in, built of stone. There was no garden, but the usual array of rainwater tanks, and one very large, very old, leafless tree. It wasn’t Gloria and Gayleen’s house, she was pretty sure of that. Further away she caught a glimpse of more buildings, but they’d have to wait till another time. She was freezing. But she was getting a feel for the place. Tomorrow she’d explore further afield. And at least she’d met Mrs Hazlitt. It was reassuring to know that she wasn’t the only woman in the house.
Mary deliberated about what she could make for the evening meal. In the pantry, she ran her eye over the rows of bottled fruit and preserves. Someone had been busy. There were a dozen or so big Vacola bottles filled with peeled tomatoes: soup, perhaps? There were plenty of onions and garlic, but no fresh basil.
On a shelf crammed with various flours, she found a packet of yeast. If there was any life left in it, she could make bread rolls; if not, cheese scones. After that the men could polish off the leftover mutton. The soup, with a roll or scone, should be enough for Mrs Hazlitt.
Mary ventured further into the pantry. Hadn’t Paul said something about a meat room? She found a screened door and pushed through it to be greeted by the smell of raw meat. There was a bandsaw, and a scrubbed pine table; a sink in the corner. Hanging on the other side of the room was the cloth-shrouded body of a dead animal. Although she’d learnt basic butchery at the cooking school, she’d never had to use those skills and wasn’t eager to start now.
Back in the warm kitchen, she set to work chopping onions. She was feeling the beginning of optimism. She could fix up the house, even without the paint job and new carpets it needed. Under the grime, it was well designed and solidly built and all it needed was some work. The room that she was most curious about was Mrs Hazlitt’s, so different from the rest. There were no signs in that room to indicate that Paul Hazlitt ever slept in it.
Mary sighed. The Hazlitts were turning out to be nothing like she gracious family she’d imagined, and she doubted whether closer acquaintance would make them more likeable. But there was an element of mystery about them, and getting to the bottom of that might prove to be interesting enough to make her stay here worthwhile. In any case, with the nearest town sixty kilometres away, and no car, she had no way of leaving.
B
Y THE END OF THE WEEK,
Mary had come to grips with the cleaning jobs. Martin’s and Paul’s bedrooms had been the worst, grimed with dirt and rank with sour body odours. She’d discovered the room where they watched TV in the evenings, a lounge at the front of the house furnished with little more than a bulky moquette-covered suite, a flat-screen television and a fridge. The seat of the settee bore deep impressions of the men’s bodies, the carpet in front of it scuffed bare of pile by their feet. The couch’s broad padded arms were ringed with stains, probably from beer cans, judging by the contents of the fridge and overflowing waste bin. The room stank of dust but, mercifully, there was no trace of cigarette smoke; and a thorough airing and going-over with the vacuum cleaner had greatly improved the ambience. She’d drawn signs of approval from Martin for her cooking, although neither man could be said to be effusive. And Mrs Hazlitt was eating, like a very small bird, it was true, but Mary was enjoying the challenge of preparing food for her that combined maximum flavour and nutrition with minimum volume.
When she heard the Piper take off after dinner on Friday, Mary felt a lift of the heart. Paul and Martin wouldn’t be back till Monday, three days away. They went up to Perth most weekends, she’d learnt, and without their silent presence she might have a better chance of unravelling the mystery of Mrs Hazlitt. The Piper passed beyond hearing, and Mary was busy in the kitchen when she sensed movement behind her.
Mrs Hazlitt was leaning against the doorframe, watching her. She was wearing the long white gown, with a cream knitted wrap over it, sheepskin boots on her feet. Mary was startled, then curious, then pleased.
‘Would you like to come and sit in the warm?’ she said, feeling like a hostess welcoming a guest. ‘Can I get you a comfortable chair?’ The only seats in this room were the wooden dining chairs.
Mrs Hazlitt considered the question. ‘You could get one from Ellen’s room …’ She waved a hand to indicate the front rooms.
‘Sure.’ Mary edged past Mrs Hazlitt, detecting a hint of green-apple shampoo.
‘On the left side,’ Mrs Hazlitt murmured.
Mary hadn’t yet been into this room, opposite the one where the men spent their evenings. Entering it was like slipping into a time warp. Wallpaper patterned in dark art-nouveau arabesques, together with the jarrah of the floor and joinery, made the room dim. The air was musty, with an overtone of mothballs. The pictures hanging on the walls were old photographs, and in the corner was a piano, complete with tarnished brass candlesticks hinged on the front panels. A trio of armchairs covered with faded rose-coloured linen was arranged in a conversational semi-circle next to the window. More than this, Mary didn’t take in; Mrs Hazlitt was waiting. She picked up one of the chairs. It was lighter than she expected, and she carried it easily out to the kitchen and positioned it near the stove where it wouldn’t block her own access. Mrs Hazlitt lowered herself into it, bracing her descent with a hand on the chair’s arm. As the seat took her weight, a flicker of something that might be pain distorted her features, and Mary felt sympathy for her, spiced by a sharp curiosity. Mrs Hazlitt sat for a while, looking quietly around her as if she were a stranger here.