On the day of the dance, however, he was out shifting stock. It was a moody afternoon with clouds piled ominously on the ridge. In the homestead, Daphne bathed and dressed. In front of the mirror she carefully applied a smear of pink lipstick and a flourish of pale blue eye shadow. Then she fussed endlessly with her hair, deciding in the end to pull it up in a loose high bun, with soft strands falling beside her pretty flushed cheeks.
She was still preoccupied with herself at the mirror when the storm came in: lightning jags flashing from the steely clouds, thunder growling, rain sheeting over the mountains. She moved to the window to watch the weather, worried her father might be unable to make his way back in time. He could get caught up in the storm, trying to move cattle turned restless and stubborn in the rain. She imagined him shouting at them, wheeling and kicking his horse among them so he could angrily and impatiently ply their wet backs with his whip. He would make them do his bidding and he would be here—she was sure of it. He was a sturdily reliable man. On a chair, his suit was laid out ready, his shirt ironed, shoes shined.
The minutes went by and he didn’t appear. She hovered anxiously at the window, trying to will the shape of man-on-horse from the furious lash of rain. But he didn’t show and gradually her anger began to stir. Perhaps he had meant to be late or not to come back at all. Maybe this was his punishment because she had chosen the wrong man. Her father could deliberately spoil her evening. He could use the stock as an excuse, or the dogs, the weather, his horse,
anything
to avoid taking her to the ball.
Eventually the rain thinned and then stopped, and the sky brightened with patches of blue. Daphne stood stiffly by the window, fury tumbling in her heart and quickening her breath. It was so late and still her father had not come. He had let her down, and she would never forgive him.
Then she saw the neighbour’s truck coming slowly along the drive, splashing through puddles left by the storm. It lumbered past the yards to the front of the homestead, and Doug Norrington stepped out and peered cautiously towards the door. He had about him the look of a haunted man, and Daphne’s heart suddenly skipped to a different beat. Something was wrong. She hurried to the bed, yanked off the dress, tugged on some old clothes and yelled for her mother.
Doug met them on the veranda, his battered old hat in his hand. He had come to tell them Daphne’s father was dead. He had found him in the creek near the bridge with his head under the water. Doug had seen the cattle wandering along the road, Daphne’s father’s horse grazing on the verge. Then he’d seen her father in the creek. There were gouges on the bridge where the horse must have slipped. Daphne’s father must have hit his head on the deck then slid into the creek. Doug reckoned it had been fast.
He grasped Daphne’s mother’s arm to support her as she sank into the grip of shock. Then he helped her into the house. Daphne stayed on the veranda, staring numbly at Doug’s truck, knowing her father’s body was in there, perhaps lying on the straw in the tray-back, the life gone out of him. Her emotions began to boil: a mash of anger and guilt and dismay and disappointment, all of it rolling over her and balling into harsh jerky sobs.
Doug came out, touched her shoulder gently and asked if she was all right. Of course she wasn’t, but he was so kind she couldn’t shout at him, couldn’t hit him with the great wall of grief that was congealing inside her. He stood nearby until her sobs had stilled then he said quietly, ‘You take yourself inside and look after your mother. I’ll bring your father in.’
Daphne went into the house, saw her mother crumpled in a chair weeping, but was unable to console her. An automaton, she moved to the cupboard and pulled out a sheet, laid it out on the lounge ready for her father’s body. Then she opened the door to show Doug in.
He placed her father gently, respectfully, on the sheet, mindfully arranged the slack legs and arms, brushed a hand over her father’s lids in an attempt to close his eyes. ‘The lids are stubborn,’ he said softly to Daphne with the kindest, most empathetic smile she had ever seen. ‘Best I leave you with him now. But if you’ve any questions, anything I can do, just let me know. I’ll drop in again soon.’
She followed him to the door and stretched out her hand. ‘Thank you,’ she said, feeling his warm grip for the first time.
The dance went ahead without her, of course. She heard that Stewart got drunk and seduced another woman who, most inconveniently for Stewart, fell pregnant. He had to marry her, and they left the district because Stewart was penniless. Daphne realised she had been lucky to escape—although it was a while before she could see it that way. After her father’s death, there weren’t many options. Her mother couldn’t run the farm, and Daphne knew she couldn’t manage on her own. She was a good horsewoman and unafraid of hard work, but it was still the era of men; without a male to run the farm, she and her mother were vulnerable. They would have to sell the land and move away.
Daphne couldn’t face it. The land was in her blood, and it had been her father’s reason for living. She did the only thing she could do; time elapsed then she married Doug. He was a good man, well respected, and she knew the union would have pleased her father. It was the right decision. Doug found his way into her heart and she learned to love him. He took good care of her, he was a good father, and they understood each other: they both loved the land. What more could she have wanted?
Daphne is exhausted; Abby sees it in the old lady’s face, which is paler and more drawn than usual. Tiredness sits under her eyes. Abby knows she is supposed to glean a message from Daphne’s story, that good endings are possible even in difficult circumstances. She knows the old lady wants her to resolve things with Cameron and live happily ever after. But Abby’s tale is different. What was right for Daphne decades ago bears no relation to her own journey. The best Abby can do is show appreciation of the old lady’s tale, smile and be kind. She tops up Daphne’s teacup and offers her another piece of soggy lemon slice. Perhaps a bit of sugar will perk
the old lady up.
‘How’s young Cameron?’ Daphne asks.
It’s the question that had to come, Abby supposes, beginning to feel weary herself. ‘I saw him recently,’ she says. ‘But I think it’s over. He’s moved on.’
Daphne raises an eyebrow and Abby knows the old lady doesn’t believe her. It is then that the doorbell rings, and they both look reflexively to the door.
‘I’ll get it, if you like,’ Abby offers.
But Daphne heaves herself out of the chair and wavers through the foyer, oblivious to the fact she’s still wearing the dress. Abby sees the dark silhouettes of two people through the frosted glass. She stands as Daphne swings the door open to reveal two policemen standing on the doorstep. One is tall and overweight with a bunch of grey bristles on his lip which is supposed to pass for a moustache, the other is thin and clean-shaven and serious. They look grim, as if they have just come from a funeral.
Daphne tucks her cardigan close around her chest and straightens. ‘Can I help you?’ she asks. Then she flickers a glance of alarm at Abby before turning back to the police. ‘Is everything all right?’ she adds. ‘My daughter? The grandchildren? There hasn’t been an accident, has there?’
The taller policeman smiles reassuringly. ‘Nothing like that,’ he says. ‘Nothing to worry about. We’re looking for Daphne Norrington.’
‘That’s me.’ Daphne is holding onto the door handle. She looks down as if suddenly registering the ball gown, and the pink flush that mounts her cheeks spells embarrassment. Abby feels her discomfort. The dress was a private story, not to be shared in a public setting.
The tall policeman is fortunately professional. ‘Do you mind if we come in?’ he says, overlooking the dress. ‘We need to speak to you. We’ve come across some new evidence on your husband’s case.’
Daphne remains in the doorway. ‘Doug died years ago,’ she says. ‘His case has been closed.’
‘Ma’am, a skull has been found,’ the thin policeman says, clearing a gravelly throat. ‘We’ve been through our records and checked the coroner’s file from your husband’s disappearance in the mountains. It’s early days and there are several tests to be done, but we think it might be him. Can we come in and go through some paperwork with you?’
Abby hears the word
skull
and feels a small shock of connection: George and his collection, the human skull of unknown origin. Is it possible that he has taken her threat seriously and handed the thing in? Could that be where this skull has come from? It seems too timely to be pure coincidence. She sees Daphne step back, shaking her head as she leads the policemen across the foyer with its cream-coloured tiles. Abby is not surprised the old lady is finding this hard to believe. She is struggling with the shock of it too.
Then, without warning, Daphne crumples to the floor in a cloud of pink material. Abby launches forward to protect Daphne’s head, which has already thumped on the tiles with a sickening crack. She lays Daphne gently in the recovery position. It is like last time out in the valley . . . at least she hopes it is, and that the old lady has simply collapsed again. Tentatively she tucks her fingers into Daphne’s neck to check her pulse, feels the solid beat and sits back on her heels, floppy with relief. She barks at the policemen to grab a cushion from the couch, which she places beneath Daphne’s head.
‘Christ!’ she hears the tall policemen say to the other. ‘You’re supposed to sit them down before you give them news like that.’
‘Ray,’ Abby yells down the corridor. ‘Some help please.’
‘I’ll call an ambulance,’ the thin policeman says.
Abby doesn’t look up. She strokes Daphne’s thin white hair back from her face, feels a twist of deep affection as she tucks a wisp behind Daphne’s ear. She sees the old lady awakening, quickly, like a deaf dog startled from slumber. Daphne’s pale eyes stare across the floor then twitch up to Abby. ‘It’s okay,’ Abby says. ‘You tumbled.’
Ray appears from his office and pauses, bewildered, when he sees the policemen. Then he registers Abby on the floor crouching over Daphne.
‘She collapsed,’ Abby says as he squats beside her.
He gathers the old lady in his arms like a child and carries her to the couch. The policemen continue to wait near the front door. One of them informs them that an ambulance is on the way.
‘I don’t need an ambulance,’ Daphne insists, batting Ray away. ‘I’m fine.’
But Ray shakes his head, taking control. ‘You are not fine. People don’t just fall over. Has it happened before?’ He follows Daphne’s guilty glance to Abby, and Abby nods. ‘Right,’ Ray says. ‘How many times?’
Daphne looks away, mumbles almost inaudibly.
‘Four or five times?’ Ray’s lips compress. ‘If that’s the case we need to check it out. Let the ambulance come.’
Daphne folds her arms over the cardigan and hunches into herself, looking suddenly frail and old, ridiculous in the dress. Abby wonders if perhaps they should take her to the bedroom and remove the gown before the ambulance arrives. But there isn’t time. Outside, a car pulls up and Abby hears voices: Ben’s high-pitched shout. ‘Look, there’s a police car here.’
Then the cavalcade arrives: three children pour into the room with rapid running feet and school bags and a plethora of questions. Pam follows, eyebrows lifting into a question mark under her prim straight fringe, her mouth set in a line of worry.
And then the ambulance is there, barrelling with a shriek into the street, the two paramedics pushing less than politely past the policemen and the gaggle of children to find their patient. They bend over Daphne and examine her, take her heart rate, blood pressure, shine a torch in her eyes, look in her mouth, ask questions, start attaching leads to her arms and legs.
Pam and Ray hover, watching anxiously.
Abby, the policemen and the children are superfluous. Abby ushers the kids outside and the policemen follow, muttering something about getting back in touch when the crisis is over. The children run to the gate, yelling and squealing, awed by the emergency vehicles parked in the street. A police car
and
an ambulance—Abby supposes that doesn’t happen every day. She wonders how she will keep the kids entertained while everyone else is inside worrying over Daphne. Then the idea comes to her. She puts on her most persuasive smile for the policemen. Cameron would say she was cheating, using her femininity, but hey, if it works . . .
‘Can we have a look inside your car?’ she asks. ‘The kids would love it.’
The tall policeman’s serious face splits into an affable smile. ‘Sure. Part of community service, I suppose. And we’re not in a rush, are we?’ he says to his colleague.
Good, Abby thinks. She has a few questions she wants to ask the policemen about that skull.
Hospital hasn’t changed much since the last time Daphne was here, and she can’t quite remember when that was—maybe when Sandy had her babies. Then again, hospitals have always been the same: horrible shiny impersonal spaces full of white beds and fluorescent lights and echoing voices and machines that go ping.
Pam fusses while Daphne lies on a nasty hard bed in emergency asking repeatedly why she can’t just go home. ‘I’m old,’ she says. ‘Everyone has to die of something.’
Pam is obviously affronted. ‘I’m not letting you die just yet. This might be something entirely treatable, which means you can live happily for quite a bit longer. If you weren’t here, who would I complain to about Sandy’s kids? Ray is too busy to listen.’
When Pam puts it like that, Daphne can see her point. And it’s good to know her company is valued. Pity it takes a crisis for people to announce their feelings.
The hospital is busy. When they arrived, the waiting room was full of weary-looking people sagging in plastic chairs, watching TV with jaded faces. When Pam told the triage nurse that the paramedics had recommended Daphne come immediately to hospital for further assessment, the nurse took them straight through and found a bed for Daphne, then she drew the curtains and told them to wait. What else do you do in hospitals? Daphne thought.