Sarah Thornhill (16 page)

In this house from now on the girl would always be Rachel. Her New Zealand name was gone for good. However long she'd be remembered, she'd be Rachel. Her own true name, whatever it was, gone from the world.

It was a chilly thought. How easy for a name to be lost. A kind of death. It could happen from one moment to the next, and there was no going back.

I stretched out on the bed. Up on the ceiling was a branching crack I'd never seen before. Just a crack in the ceiling, but precious because Jack would of known it. He'd of lain here just where I was, hands under his head, tracking that crack from where it started in the corner to where it ended at the opposite wall.

For a blazing second he was there with me, his head on the pillow beside mine, breathing along with me.

I let myself feel the stab. How much I longed for him. Buried my face in the pillow. I'd of picked up the scent of him, like a dog. But there was nothing. Starch and feathers, that was all.

Jack was gone, but I wasn't having it. Every morning I woke up with a new way to push it back. Got dressed, put on my boots, walked up the road as far as where he'd left me. Or turned the other way, down to the jetty. Anywhere he'd been. Walked there fast, sat as if he'd said,
I'll soon be back
instead of,
Never want to see
your face again.

Pa watched me go. Said nothing. Ma pestered me to help in the kitchen or turn out the linen cupboard but Pa said, leave her be, Meg. Far as the girl went, I might as well of not been there. After that day on the bed she never looked at me again. She'd find a wall, with Pa out on the verandah, or in the parlour. Sit with her back to it, make a dark place for her face behind her knees.

I knew Jack wouldn't be at Sullivan's. No point going there. But one day I took the skiff, went down the river. It was a still morning with no sun, no direction, no time, the river slimy in the dull light. The tide was with me, I hardly had to touch the oars. Past our orchard, past our corn, past Payne's Mill.

Till I got past the spur I was in sight of the house. It was too far for me to see, but I felt Pa watching me through the telescope. I wasn't going to give him a thing. Not even the look on my face. Put my head down and if he was looking, all he'd of seen was the top of my head.

Sullivan's looked the same as it always did. A dirty-looking strip of sand with dead oyster shells all over it, a paddock overgrown with scrub, a crooked hut sliding into the long grass, the bark of the roof splitting and falling away. No man with a sharp axe had done any patching of that roof.

To be disappointed you had to of hoped.

Inside, the place struck chill. It was a box with no windows, damp and dark. There'd been no fire warming that hearth, not for years. No one had sat at that broken table or slept on the bed in the corner, all cobwebs and dust. There was a heaviness to the air. Humans had given up on the place, and it felt nature had too. It would never be a shelter for man or woman again.

I stood there in the grey light, the only sound the river lapping at the broken oysters down on the sand. I laboured to feel any ghost of Jack here, but there was none. He might of been here once or twice, stood where I was standing and tried to picture it a home, the way I was doing. But no more than that. He hadn't made it his. He'd never be here again.

Still, it was hard to leave the place that I'd had so many daydreams about. It seemed an insult to the hopes we'd had. I took off my shawl, spread it out on the bed. Tucked the corners in neat, so it looked welcoming. I knew the shawl would lie on that empty bed till it crumbled away to dust, but I did it anyway. It was a gesture, something to bring warmth to the cursed feeling the place had.

By the time I left the hut and got into the skiff again, the tide had turned and the river was murkier. Currents met in the hidden depths and sent up swirls that formed and smoothed, formed and smoothed. I let the tide take me up the river again and watched the hut till it was out of sight. I'd never go there again.

Pa was on our jetty, I saw him soon as the boat cleared that last spur. He didn't wave, didn't move. I steered to the far bank, let the river carry me past. Kept my face turned away. I thought he might call out or come after me. But he watched me and did nothing.

Up at Langland's everyone was out except for old Mr Langland. He didn't say much. Just that Jack was gone off to New Zealand.

There was a coldness to his eye.

Jack's Ma was a black gin, he said. Knew that, did you?

Yes, I said. Made no odds to me.

Well, Dolly, he said, three cheers for you.

Gave me a smirk full of yellow teeth.

There's plenty feel different, Dolly, he said. As you've found out for yourself. If you was mine, I'd of said the same. Good enough feller, but not to marry.

I wished I hadn't of come. Knew it would be no good, but had to see it for myself. Jack wasn't here. Wouldn't be again.

Best cheer yourself up, Dolly, Mr Langland said. Wouldn't bet on Jack coming back this way.

If he does, I said, tell him Sarah Thornhill wants to see him.

But Jack already knew Sarah Thornhill wanted to see him. There was no message to send him that would make any difference.

Mr Langland said nothing. Drew the air through his empty pipe with a whistling noise.

Mrs Herring was on her jetty, waved me over as I rowed back down the river.

Dolly, she said. You're nearly dead, lass.

Got me in front of the fire, her shawl round me, food and drink inside me. My blood started to move again and with it my feelings. I thought I'd cried every tear I had in me, but they kept coming. Mrs Herring sat puffing at her pipe. When the tears stopped she put a hand on my arm.

You know, Dolly, she said. Once upon a time I had a sweetheart.

Took the pipe out so she could have a good laugh.

Believe it or not, I did, she said. Name of Joe Giddings. Tall sturdy feller and my word I fancied him. Often think, where would I be today if I'd of married Joe Giddings.

Puffed away as if she was waiting for me to say, Why didn't you?

Well, why, that's the question, she said. He went off. Went off one day to the next, never ever did know why. Oh I was sad.

Cried myself dry.

Don't tell me it's for the best, I said. Don't say that.

I hated her, sitting pleased with her story about this Joe Giddings that I didn't believe in. She started poking round in the bowl of the pipe with the knife, flicking bits of ash into the fire.

I won't, Dolly, she said. Wouldn't insult you. All I can say is, Jack would of had his reasons. Not something he'd of done lightly.

Where is he, I said. Where's he gone to.

Dolly dear, she said, I don't know, no more than you do. But Jack knows what he's about. That I'm sure of. He'd of had good reasons. You best trust him on that.

I watched the knife scraping round the rim of the bowl and wanted the old clay to break into bits. Wanted the knife to slip and slice into her.

Known you since you was born, dear, she said. If I could help you I would. But nothing I can do. Not me, not anyone.

But she wouldn't meet my eye. I knew then how much I was on my own. It had been me and Jack. Now it was just me.

Pa was on the jetty as if he'd never moved. Leaned down and got hold of the rope, held out his hand for me to step up. Even after all those years he still had a hard boatman's hand. He went on holding mine even after I was on the jetty.

I know you mourn for him, Dolly, he said. I see how you hanker. But pet, he won't be back. You know that, don't you.

He had some mercy. Didn't make me say it.
Yes, he won't be
back.

It was a sad house with Jack gone, the silence solid as darkness. The grief sucked everything away, every feeling except itself. Even the sun was dull.

I didn't cry again. I was cold as a stone inside, like someone with a leg chopped off. Waited for the days to pass, me and my body cut off from each other, no way to knit them up again.

All sights, every sound, led to the same place. When the wind blew and the rain fell I thought of the night Jack brought the girl, how the wet made his hair gleam. When the river sparkled it was mockery. When a bird flicked on a twig and cocked its head sideways at me all I could think was how lucky it was to be a bird.

In the mornings I got up and put clothes on, at night I took them off and lay down. Sat at the table and put pieces of food in my mouth and chewed and swallowed. Could hear Ma and Pa talking, but a long way off. Heard them calling.
Dolly! Dolly!
Their voices like a fly against the window.

I'd thought Pa loved me in his own way. But he'd let Ma do the dirty work for him. When push came to shove, he wouldn't stand up to her. Didn't say,
Dolly's my daughter, I'll see her happy
. Didn't go to Jack and say,
Pride be damned, Jack lad
.

I went over those few hours where everything had warped out of shape. No matter how many times I did, it wasn't quite right.
Not stand in her way
didn't fit alongside
Never want to see your
face again
. The thing felt like a trick.

The girl wandered the house, into every room. Opened the cupboards, looked in. If she heard a noise from the yard she'd run out to see what it was. After she'd looked in every room she'd start again. When Ma pulled her into the parlour she'd wedge herself into the window seat watching the patch of water that was the first place you saw a boat coming up the river.

Look out for her,
he'd said. But how did you look out for a girl who didn't want you near?

Just the once I saw her different. Walked down the track towards the river one afternoon and saw her slipping between the trees. I let her go ahead to watch where she was going.

When she got to the sandy spit on the point I saw what she'd come for. Phillip, with Belle on a halter, the two of them splashing about in the shallow water. Him drawing the mare along, little coaxing noises, and Belle pretending she didn't know what water was, pawing at it, putting her nose down to taste it.