Authors: Mairi Wilson
And her son Ross, her boy, her true firstborn, even more so.
Izzie had been right about supper. Helen could only surmise that someone else was responsible for kitchen matters at the Mission. But she’d forced herself to eat a little of the plate the good woman had prepared and brought to her on a tray so Helen could eat still propped up against the pillows on her bed. Helen hoped Izzie had managed to do the same, knew hunger had a way of persuading her daughter to eat most things; and if not, perhaps Rusty would have helped her out.
When Sister Agnes returned to take the tray, Izzie was with her.
“Are you better yet?” she asked.
“Shush,” Sister Agnes had intervened before Helen could answer. “Not now, Isobel. It can wait till morning.”
Izzie’s face had shown her struggle, but obedience won the day.
“Goodnight, Mama.” She’d clambered up onto the bed again to kiss Helen and hug her. “Get better
soon
.”
“Goodnight, darling.” Helen squeezed her daughter tight.
“Rusty’s going to sleep outside my door, Sister Agnes said.”
“Better that than in her bed.” The Sister smiled. “Come on, let’s get you off then.”
“Sister, I—”
“Later, Helen. I’ll get this one to bed and then we’ll talk.”
“Is she sleeping?”
The nun smiled. “Barely finished her prayers before her eyes closed and I had to lift her into bed. Rusty, too. Sound asleep, the pair of them. She’s worn them both out. Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought her the puppy, but I’d thought it might be some small protection for you both, living alone here …”
Sister Agnes looked down as her voice trailed off. Helen knew they were both thinking the same thing. Too late for protection.
“She’ll want to keep the dog anyway, I imagine,” Helen said. “But I’m not sure we can. I’m not even sure we can stay here. We’re not safe here any longer. Izzie isn’t safe. He was here. This afternoon. He did this. He’ll be back.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know how he found me. But he thinks it’s just me. If there’s anything to be thankful for in all of this, it’s that Izzie was with you. He doesn’t know she’s still alive.”
“Are you sure?”
Helen hesitated. How could she be sure? She’d spent the morning tidying after Sister Agnes had taken Izzie, so there had been no toys or traces of her in the sitting room. She’d hidden the shirt she’d been mending out on the verandah, picked up the tiny knitted doll’s shoe that had lain on the floor and stuffed it into her pock—
“My clothes. Where are they?”
“My dear, they’re not fit for—”
“Where, Sister? I need to check the pockets.” Helen struggled to throw back the sheet, pushed herself to her feet, clutching at the Sister in her effort to stand.
“Now, now, Helen. I’ll fetch them. You stay in bed.”
“No. Let me see them. It’s important.” Helen lurched to the door, leant against the frame until she found her balance, then pushed herself off towards the kitchen, feet thudding heavily on the bare wooden floor.
“Shh, Helen. You’ll wake—”
“In here?”
“No, I’ve put them out the back. I was going to burn them later, when Izzie was asleep. Sit, Helen. I’ll fetch them.” Sister Agnes turned to push the kitchen door shut behind them, but not before the clack of claws on wood announced the arrival of Rusty. The puppy sat at Helen’s feet, looked up at her expectantly.
“Oh, that dog. Keep him here. We’ll lose him in the darkness if he gets out.” Sister Agnes disappeared into the night.
Helen and the puppy looked at each other. Then the dog whimpered, ears rising then falling again, flat against its head. The tail wagged once then stopped. Another whimper and it ducked its head forward and down, nudging Helen’s leg, before starting back and up onto all fours. Rusty danced back a step or two, then forward again.
“He wants to play.”
Helen hadn’t heard the door open, looked up to see a sleepy Izzie rubbing one eye and yawning, her doll, minus one shoe, tucked trailing from her free hand.
“Izzie. It’s late. You should be sleeping.”
“I heard you talking to Sister Agnes. Then Rusty wasn’t there so I came to find him.”
“Take him then, Izzie, and go back to bed.”
“But he wants to play—”
“
Izzie.
Just do as you’re told.”
The young girl’s eyes widened at the sharpness in Helen’s voice.
“Oh darling, I’m sorry. I— Come here.” Helen reached her arms out to her daughter, lifted her onto her lap and pulled her close, inhaled the soapy smell of her, the mint from recently brushed teeth still lingering on the ragged breath.
“Sing, Mama. Sing me to sleep.” The thumb tucked into the pink lips, the flushed cheeks dipping as she sucked. Helen reached down and gently pulled the thumb from her daughter’s mouth, then leant forward and kissed the blonde head nestled against her chest. There’d be no need to sing, Helen knew. In seconds Izzie’s breath had evened to a rhythmic pulse, the slender limbs had fallen relaxed and heavy against Helen’s own. The doll dropped to the floor, where Rusty was sniffing at it with interest. Careful not to disturb the sleeping child, Helen reached down and picked it up, safely out of the dog’s reach. If only it were so easy to put the child herself out of harm’s way.
“Here—” The nun stopped abruptly as she took in the Madonna and Child-like tableau at the table. She closed the outside door gently behind her, dropped the pile of soiled and tattered garments onto the far end of the table and came towards them, arms outstretched. “I’ll take her back to bed.”
“No. Not yet.” Helen spoke softly, held her daughter closer, eyes filling with tears. “Look in the pockets. For a shoe. A doll’s shoe. Like this one.” Helen’s free hand lifted a leg of the doll she’d laid in front of her on the table.
Frowning a little, Sister Agnes pulled the remains of Helen’s dress out of the bundle, shook it out. One patch pocket hung ripped and open, the fabric folding back like the corner of a page turned over to mark the reader’s place in an unfinished book. Helen held her breath as the nun reached into the other, shook her head.
“Are there any other pockets?”
Helen shook her own head now, slowly, heavily.
“You didn’t see it when you were … the bed … or … or …”
“No.” The nun was frowning still, as she tried to work out why Helen was so concerned about a doll’s shoe.
“He’s taken it. He knows.”
Helen pulled her daughter closer still, the tears that were now sliding down pale cheeks dropping softly onto the dishevelled curls. After a moment she looked up at Sister Agnes. Helen knew what she had to do.
“Take her.”
Helen’s arms crossed over her empty chest as the nun carried the sleeping girl away.
* * *
Watching her daughter being driven away the next morning had been the hardest thing she’d ever done.
“Bye darling,” she’d said casually, desperate to sound like she did every other time her daughter had climbed into the dusty white Mission car, hardly with a backward glance, excited at the prospect of having other children to play with. Helen had kissed her lightly on the cheek, resisting the urge to pull her in close and hold her tight. Izzie usually wriggled out of her mother’s embrace on Mission days, her mind already on the games that she would play, the fun she’d have, the stories she’d have later to tell her mother.
That day, though, Izzie had been a little clingy, almost reluctant. Helen had marvelled at first at her child’s intuition, her ability to pick up on her mother’s mood no matter how hard Helen tried to hide it. But then the real reason for Izzie’s reluctance had scampered out from under the verandah steps, snout dusted red with the dry earth, a forgotten tennis ball clenched tight between drooling, chewing jaws.
“Rusty!” Izzie had raced towards him. “I’ll be back soon – promise!” She’d hugged the excited puppy as tightly and as enthusiastically as Helen longed to hug Izzie herself.
“Come on, Izzie,” Sister Agnes, said, her eyes locking onto Helen’s. “Rusty will be fine here without you today. Mama will look after him.”
“Why can’t I take him? He could play with the others.”
“He’ll stop Mama getting lonely.” Helen said, her hand rising to her neck as she felt her throat tighten on the words, wincing as she brushed the bruises from yesterday, hidden by the high-buttoned collar of her blouse.
“But I’m only going to the Mission. I won’t be long. Mama …” Izzie’s face took on a puzzled look as a new thought struck her. “Why am I going to the Mission again? I only went yesterday.”
“I … I know, darling. But you see …” Helen couldn’t think what to say.
“There’s a special treat today,” Sister Agnes cut in, and Helen wondered at the nun’s unexpected fluency in the lie. “A trip for you and some of the other children. You’re going to go away for a little while.”
“But … but …” Izzie looked panicked as she turned her head from side to side, from Rusty to the nun and back again to the dog, now hunched down on the shade of the mimosa tree, ball between paws, jaws working at a loose flap of yellowed rubber. Helen’s heart lurched. Her daughter didn’t even glance in her direction.
“Mama will take care of Rusty, Isobel. Don’t you want to go on an adventure with the other children?”
Izzie’s face broke into a grin. She ran over to the dog and hugged him and then, in a fit of exuberance, hugged her mother too. Then she took the nun’s hand in hers and started to walk over to the car. As the nun turned, she looked back over her shoulder at Helen.
“I’ll take care of her.”
Helen nodded and stood there watching the dust the car threw up behind it as her daughter was driven away, praying she’d be safe. Praying she’d done the right thing for her in giving her up. Wondering if she would ever be able to reclaim her, would ever even see her again.
It was another twelve days before Cameron came back. It was evening and Helen was sitting, as she’d taken to doing, in the room that had once been Izzie’s but which now was stripped bare, robbed of all traces of the presence of a child. Rusty sat at her feet. It was his ears pricking up and the low rumble akin to a growl that emanated from deep inside the small body that had alerted her to the sound of a car. Rusty might turn into a protector yet, she thought, even as her stomach clenched and her skin prickled with revulsion at the memory of the thick fingers probing, pinching.
When Cameron pulled back the screen door, he saw her waiting for him, knife in her hand, small dog at her feet. He laughed. Laughed loudly, his face reddening as his mirth brought tears to his eyes and he threw himself down on one of the sofas.
“Ah, Helen.” He dabbed at the tears with a pressed white handkerchief he’d pulled from the top of the cream linen jacket he wore, despite the heat. “You never cease to amuse me.” Helen watched the eyes narrow into slits as he looked her slowly up and down, and then he looked down again, to Rusty sitting quietly at her feet, strangely still and cowed.
“What’s that? A guard dog?” He laughed again and in one fluent movement rose from the sofa and crossed the room, grabbing her wrist and twisting till the knife fell from her grasp. He kicked at it, kicked Rusty instead, laughing again as the animal yelped and scurried away. “Well, I think we can agree your defences don’t amount to much. But there’s no need. Fun though it was, I’ve other things on my mind tonight, and look at you anyway. My, how you’ve let yourself go. Hardly the society beauty I married. I doubt even Gregory would be tempted now.” He tossed her wrist away and turned his back on her as he strode back to the screen door. “No, I’ve a pretty young thing tucked up in bed – our bed – back in Blantyre, waiting for me later tonight. So relax. It isn’t you I’ve come for this time.”
He slid a hand into a jacket pocket and pulled out the tiny shoe. Helen couldn’t suppress the small gasp that escaped her lips. She heard Cameron chuckle. He turned to face her, threw it down on the floor between them, a parody of a gauntlet but the challenge clear nonetheless. “A deal, dear Helen, a straightforward trade. A child for a child. What could be fairer than that? Oh and of course, you and Ross stay dead.”
“I don’t know what you mean—” Helen began.
“Don’t provoke me, dearest. You know what I’m like when I’m cross.” He picked up the shoe, rubbed it between thumb and forefinger, then crumpled it into his fist. “I won’t ask politely again. Bring her out.”
“I … Who?”
The slap was sudden and harsh, the force of it spinning Helen’s head round until a yank on her hair stopped its momentum. Cameron pulled harder, forcing her head back as he loomed over her and spoke through clenched teeth.
“Fetch her. Now.” He released her and pushed her in front of him towards the corridor leading to the other rooms in the small bungalow. Helen tripped over the edge of the rug and fell onto her knees, but he caught her arm and pulled her upright before pushing her forward again. She shook her head, pulled back, refused to move.
“Come on. Move.” He dragged her behind him as he started down the corridor, kicking open her bedroom door, striding in and pulling at the wardrobe handles, wrenching back the mosquito net and lifting the cover to look beneath the bed. “Izzie? Izzie, sweetheart! Uncle Cameron’s come to take you home.”
Pushing past Helen where he’d discarded her on her knees at the threshold of the room, he kicked open the door to the bathroom opposite, then strode on to the next room, where Rusty sat growling in front of the door. Cameron’s foot swung and the dog yelped again as it slid over the floor to collide with the dresser standing in the corner.
“Guarding your little mistress, are you? Very noble.” The room was empty. Bare. The bed not made up, the mosquito net knotted and hooked back, the shelves and surfaces clear. And clean, Helen realised with a start, as she stepped into the room behind Cameron and scooped up the whimpering puppy.
Too clean for an empty, unused room.
“Well, well. Had a bit of a clear-out have you? Pity. Looks like you’ve nothing to bargain with, doesn’t it?”
“Wait, Cameron.” Helen grabbed his sleeve as he pushed past her, dropping Rusty as she did so, tripping over the puppy as he danced to run from their feet.