Somewhere around the Corner (15 page)

The water grabbed her, tore her, whirled her deep inside. It battered her, sucked at her and tossed her about. She wanted to scream; she wanted to breathe; she waited for the flood to fill her mouth, her eyes, her lungs, but it wasn’t water, it was something else.

It was the chaos that had taken her before, but that time she’d been in control, that time she’d had the corner clear inside her mind. She had to find the corner, the corner at the edge of her mind. She tried to clear her mind, but it was filled with molten colours, shapes, sounds and all the ways the world could turn were twisting in her head…it must be there…it must…

Suddenly it was clear again. All she had to do was walk, but her feet were lost inside the whirlpool. She couldn’t find them, couldn’t move. How had she
moved before? She’d used the strength of terror, she’d harnessed it to her feet. She could feel them now, she could lift them, oh so slowly, the corner was getting closer, nearer all the time.

Before there had been hands to help her. There were no hands now, although something was pulling her. She recognised it amid the chaos. It was her world, the reality she’d always known was waiting for her, pulling her, taking her back.

What would she find around the corner now? The demonstration where it all began? The screams, the pain at home. The Gully was home, with Jim and Ma, the family…one more step and she’d be around…somewhere safe around the corner.

The whirlpool slowed. There were colours again, greens and blues. There were sounds that she could almost hear. One more step and she’d be free of the confusion.

The world was quiet.

Then…she heard a bird singing; the creek muttering nearby. A child laughed and called to someone.

Barbara opened her eyes. The trees were the same, the high dark casaurinas, but these were dusted with pollen, not the sparkle of rain. The sky was a deep clear blue, without a trace of cloud.

Barbara sat up. Her bones ached. There was mud on her arms, her legs. Her skirt was caked with mud. Dulcie’s skirt…where was Dulcie, and Ma, Young Jim, and Thellie…

She looked around. The grass along the creek was roughly mown. The trees were sparse, just the casuarinas left along the creek and a few among the swings and seesaws. Beyond the nearest trees she could see the high fence of a tennis court, with brick barbecues beyond, and a block of toilets at the far end of the porch.

There was no-one near. The child’s voice came again, beyond the tennis court.

It was real, but she couldn’t let it be real. She wanted to go back to the time before. Somewhere around the corner. All she had to do was go back around the corner. She shut her eyes, and tried to visualise the corner. The bright sunlight turned her eyelids red. She couldn’t concentrate. No matter how hard she tried it wasn’t there. She shut her eyes tighter. It had to be there. But there was no terror, no hands pulling her that final step. This was her world. There was nowhere else to go.

She opened her eyes and tried to stand up. Her legs were wobbly. What should she do now? Where should she go? Her mind felt thick, as thick as her tongue.

They were gone. Thellie, the little ones, Ma and Dad and Elaine. Gully Jack was gone, and Dulcie and Young Jim, who’d said that he’d always look after her, he’d always be there, but he was gone as well. Under the hurt and weariness, she felt no surprise. She’d always known, without ever really thinking about it, that her time in the gully was borrowed. She remembered Dad saying he was going to make his own world around the corner, a world for his kids to learn in. She had to make her own world around the corner now. If she could.

Barbara looked down at her skirt. She had to wash. Wherever she was going, she couldn’t go like this. She looked down at the creek. It was clear and smiling, glittering between its stones, as though it had never roared and thrust and snatched.

It was strangely difficult to climb down to the water. Her body knew of the danger now. But nothing happened when she touched the surface. It was simply clear and cold and wet. She waded further out and began to wash her legs and arms, to ease the mud from between her toes, to scrub the worst of the mud stains from the skirt.

A giggle interrupted her. She looked up. There was a child on the bank; a girl with thin blonde hair and dark wide eyes. Her smile was as bright as the sun.

‘Thellie!’

The child blinked. ‘My name’s not Thellie,’ she informed her. She looked down curiously. ‘What’re you doing? How did you get so muddy?’

‘In the gully…’ Barbara faltered. There was no gully now. It must have been filled in years before and grass had covered it. There was no mud at all.

‘If I got as muddy as that I wouldn’t be allowed to watch TV,’ confided the child. ‘Why are you washing in the creek? Mummy says it’s too cold to swim in the creek now. Why don’t you go home and use the bathroom?’

‘I haven’t got a bathroom,’ said Barbara in confusion. She wondered if she should ask what year it was. But the child was probably too young to know and there was no need. It was her time, 1994.

The child considered. ‘You can use our bathroom,’ she offered. ‘We’ve got two bathrooms now. We got a new one last year. The new one’s got red tiles and…’ She looked around as a tall woman came in sight. ‘Mum, can this girl use our bathroom because she’s muddy and she hasn’t got a bathroom of her own.’

The woman cast a worried look at Barbara. Barbara could guess what she saw: a strange girl, white-faced and filthy, in a ragged skirt with bare feet and mud-streaked hair.

‘Of course she has a bathroom,’ said the woman. ‘Everyone has a bathroom. Come on now, we’ll be late for lunch. Granny’s waiting.’

‘But what about the girl?’

The child was insistent, sensing there was more trouble than a dirty skirt.

‘The girl will be all right.’ The woman hesitated as she looked down again. ‘You are all right, aren’t you?’ she asked.

Barbara shook her head. She didn’t know what to say, how to explain.

The woman stood, thinking, then came over to the bank. She wore jeans and leather sandals. Her hair was cut fashionably around her face.

‘Are you lost? You’re not from round here, are you? Where’s your home?’

‘I haven’t got a home.’

The words faded as she spoke them. She
did
have a home, they’d promised her she did; home was with the O’Reillys.

Something was digging into her leg. Something in her pocket. She fished it out. It was the lizard, the tiny wooden water dragon that Young Jim had carved and given her a few hours, and sixty years, ago! She stroked it, remembering. He’d promised her, hadn’t he? It was crazy to hope but there was still one last chance.

The woman was impatient. ‘Are you visiting someone here then?’

Barbara tried to think. If only her mind wasn’t so tired.

‘Young Jim,’ she said slowly, feeling the dragon warm in her palm. ‘Young Jim O’Reilly.’

She expected the woman not to know who she was talking about. It was impossible Young Jim should still be here, surely. But the woman seemed to be considering. She looked Barbara up and down again.

‘You’re looking for Jim O’Reilly?’ she asked. ‘Do you know him, or do you just want to talk to him?’

‘I’m a friend,’ said Barbara firmly. She was sure at least of that.

The woman was hesitant still. ‘Jim O’Reilly lives in Sydney now,’ she said slowly.

Would he remember her? He was the only link with security she had. ‘Could you give me his address? His phone number?’

‘It’s in the book,’ said the woman dismissively. She seemed about to go. The child tugged her skirt. The woman seemed to reconsider. She turned back to Barbara.

‘You won’t find him at home though,’ she admitted. ‘He had an accident three weeks ago.’

‘An accident—’

‘He broke his hip. He’s in Eastcliff Private Hospital.’

The child squatted down to look at her again. ‘I’m a friend of Jim’s too,’ she confided. ‘Are you going to visit him?’

If there was home anywhere in the world it was with Young Jim. ‘If I can get there. Maybe I can get a lift up to the train.’

The woman looked at her curiously. ‘The train? The train line’s been closed for twenty years.’

Barbara shook her head helplessly. ‘Maybe I can hitch a ride then. I don’t know.’

The small girl looked at her mother. The woman met her eyes, then shrugged. She seemed to come to a decision.

‘There’s a bus leaves from the hotel this afternoon. I don’t know what time, you’ll have to ask. It picks up the high school kids. You ask the driver, he’ll drop you at the depot for the Sydney bus.’ She glanced down at her daughter, then back at Barbara. ‘Have you got any money?’ Her mouth tightened. ‘I didn’t think so.’

She opened her handbag and took out two ten dollar notes and two fives. ‘This’ll get you to town and onto the bus.’ She looked exasperated. ‘I need to have my head read, I really do. You know where the
hotel is?’ She took the small girl’s hand firmly, as though determined to lead her away before she found any other disreputable creatures to befriend. ‘Come on, we really have to go.’

The small girl turned for one last word. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Barbara,’ said Barbara.

‘Barbara.’ The child tested it on her tongue. ‘You’ll be seeing Jim then? You say hello from me. Tell him the black cat had kittens and I’ll keep him one.’

‘I’ll tell him,’ promised Barbara. ‘What’s your name?’

The small girl gave one last blinding smile. ‘Sara,’ she recited. ‘My name is Sara Dulcie Ryan.’

The bus poured through the tunnel of the night. There was nothing to see except the guideposts flickering through the dark and the broken edges of the highway. The other journey had been in darkness too, but there had been Young Jim warm beside her, and the smell of soap and ash and soot and metal, and the comforting clack-clacking of the train. This was faster, but so much lonelier. Finally, she slept.

She woke as the bus pulled into the depot in central Sydney. The world seemed grey. There was no fireman to hand her slabs of bread and jam, no kookaburras calling in the distance. A vending machine burped coffee into someone’s cup in the waiting room. A few early cars pulled up at the traffic lights across the road.

The bus driver stared at her as she got out. He had seemed wary about letting her on the bus with her
bare feet and tangled dirty hair. There was blood on her hands where a cut had opened up again—she must have torn the skin scrabbling at the boulder and not noticed. He had accepted her money in the end, nodding her to a vacant seat down the back. She thought of the money in her pocket. Sixty cents left after the bus fare. Enough for a phone call, but not for another bus ride.

Eastcliff Private Hospital. If it was close, she’d be able to walk there. She was so hungry. How long had it been since she’d eaten Ma’s thick stew? Sixty years ago…her stomach thought it had been sixty years at least…

She had to ask someone or find a map. Would the clerk at the desk help her? They might just throw her out, looking like this. A police car pulled up beside her as the traffic lights turned red.

For a moment she hesitated, remembering the faces at the demonstration. Then Sergeant Ryan’s face erased them. She stepped onto the road without further thought and spoke through the window.

‘Excuse me. Can you tell me how far it is to Eastcliff?’

The policeman was young. He stared at her, taking in the mud and the blood on her hands.

‘Eastcliff? That’s over past Manly.’ His voice was
deep, reminding her of Gully Jack. His hands were big too, but soft where Gully Jack’s had been hard, and pink where his had been brown, with trimmed nails instead of cracked and dirty ones.

‘Manly!’ That would take hours to walk, days even.

The policeman was still staring at her. ‘You live out at Eastcliff? You look like you’ve been in the wars. You had an accident or something?’

Barbara began to shake her head, then nodded. She
had
been in an accident.

The policeman sighed. ‘Come on, hop in. I’ll give you a lift out there. I’m just going off duty. I’m headed that way myself. What’s your address?’

Barbara hesitated. ‘Not to my home. I have to get to the hospital…Eastcliff Private Hospital. My friend’s a patient there.’

‘Well, hop in if you’re coming. Come on. Quick.’ The lights had changed; other drivers were impatient. The policeman reached over and opened the door. ‘I know where the hospital is, my granny had her veins done there. Come on, get that seat belt on, the light’ll be red again in a sec.’

The seat was soft after the bus.

‘What happened to you?’

Barbara repressed an urge to giggle hysterically. What would he say if she told him? Would he be
angry, thinking she was having him on, or think she was a mental case?

‘It’s a long story. I…just got caught up in something, that’s all.’

‘Something muddy by the looks.’ The policeman changed gears, glanced at the blood on her arm, the dirty bare feet.

‘What’s your friend’s name?’ The voice was a shade too casual, as though checking that there really was a friend. Bare feet and ragged jumper couldn’t be accounted for by an accident.

‘Jim O’ Reilly.’

‘Jim O’Reilly?’ The policeman chuckled. ‘You don’t mean Young Jim O’Reilly by any chance? Do you really know him?’

‘You know Young Jim too?’

‘Never met the bloke, but I’ve read about him enough. There was an article in the paper the other day. He broke his hip or something, didn’t he, on that picket line? Silly old bastard, you’d think he’d be old enough to know better.’ The policeman grinned. ‘I wouldn’t say that in front of my dad, though. The old man’s his hero, always has been. Youngest-ever member of parliament back in the old days, that’s what the article said. That’s how he got his name, Young Jim, I reckon. He’s done some good things
though, don’t get me wrong. Is he a friend of your parents or something?’

‘He’s a friend of mine,’ said Barbara. She clenched her hands. What if he didn’t remember her? It would be so long ago for him. What if…

The police car ran smoothly through the suburbs.

The streets smelt weird after the smells of the valley; metal and plastic. She’d forgotten the hard, biting, smell of plastic. Noisy streets, after the quiet of the gully; cars and brakes and traffic lights. How could you get so close to a place in a few weeks? How could you become so entwined with the people?

But this world was real too. This was her world. Every minute made it clearer to her. As much as she longed for the O’Reillys and the gully, this time was hers, not then.

Somewhere deep in her soul she had known that her own time would claim her once more. This was home. If only the others were here too. Her heart seemed too big to cope with suddenly. She had to find Young Jim—she
had
to.

The police car moved smoothly up the hill towards the hospital. The policeman glanced at his watch. Of course, he’d been going off duty, he must have somewhere else he wanted to go. They pulled up outside the hospital gates.

‘You sure you’ll be all right? You want me to wait for you? There’s a parking lot around the back.’

Barbara shook her head. It seemed too much of an effort to speak, to explain. Everything seemed concentrated on seeing Jim again. It felt like years had passed now, not just the few hours since she’d seen him last. More years than she had lived, but she could feel them all.

The policeman looked relieved. He took out a notebook and scribbled something on it, then handed her the bit of paper. ‘Look, if you need me, you ring that number. Got it? I don’t like leaving you, but my friend’ll be waiting. She gets mad if she waits too long! You got some money on you? Here then. No, keep it, no arguing, you can send it back sometime if you want to. That’s my name written down there.’ She watched him drive off down the hill.

The hospital smelt clean, the sort of clean that seeps into you and won’t let go. She thought for a moment that the nurse at the desk was going to order her out. But she didn’t. She turned her eyes away from Barbara’s dirty feet and gestured down the hall.

The mud had dried now. It felt hard, as though it was cracking and sucking all the moisture out. Her arm hurt. Her heart beat like a hammer in her chest.

Rooms with tidy beds and tidy people, too ill or
too old to make a mess, under tightly stretched sheets and light, bright blankets; curtains at the windows that looked like they’d been starched; thick lino on the floor so her feet hardly made a noise. One room, two. It must be this one here.

She paused at the door. There were four beds inside. Two were empty, an old man was sleeping in another. Was it Jim? It couldn’t be. Even after sixty years…

A man was reading a magazine in the last bed. His face was bored, as though the magazine held no interest, just something for his hand to hold and his eyes to wander over. He wore striped pyjamas and bifocal glasses. His hair was brushed and faded, but not the pale colour that she’d known. This hair was grey.

The man looked up. She knew him then. It was the man she’d met at the first demonstration, who’d told her to walk around the corner.

The man stared. The magazine fell to his knees.

‘Bubba,’ he said.

She felt like she’d come home.