Yesterday's Dust (30 page)

Better for Ellie too.

Bessy had let a cat out of a bag yesterday. She'd told Ann and May that Bob Johnson, a retired policeman, had moved back to Mallawindy, that Ellie had invited him to dinner after church.

Ann remembering Bob Johnson.
She'd been twelve when Linda, the last-born Burton girl, had died and Jack Burton had taken off to Narrawee for a year. Bob Johnson had spent a lot of that year at the farm. He'd come with his saw and his hammer and he'd fix things, then stay on to eat dinner at Ellie's table. No doubt he'd read of Jack Burton's disappearance and returned to see how the land was lying.

Ellie was only sixty-two.
She had years of life left to live – if she was allowed to live them. But if Bron ever learned that their father was in Narrawee, she'd tell Ellie, and no more the widow, it would be goodbye Bob Johnson.

Such a nice normal year that one had been. Bessy had bought a new sewing machine and given Ann the old one, and she had learned to make magic on it. It had been a year of growing. No fear. No
fights. Bob Johnson seated at the end of the table on Sunday nights, and laughter all around. Ellie laughing too. And the card
games after the table had been cleared. And Ben's utility. And old Mickey, the dog, sleeping his life away beneath the plum tree. A different year. Ellie had been so different that year. She'd found time to be herself, a self acceptable to Bob Johnson. If Jack Burton remained
dead, Bob would not let Ellie get away a second time. Maybe that was why they were renovating the old place, Ann thought. Maybe Ellie and Bob were planning to move back over the river come Christmas.

Poor Ben. If Bron is right about Johnny and Kerrie, Ben will be left on his own to grow old alone. What a world, she thought. What a waste of a life. He should have had his own family. He'd loved
Mandy, now he loved the boys and Bethany.

Tristan yawned, and she turned to him. ‘Someone is sleepy, and he's been such a good boy for Mummy today.'

‘I Darp Bada, Mummy. Darp Bada is a bad guy,' he explained.

She smiled and settled him in the stroller, rolled the pink serviette into an elongated coil and placed it in his hand. ‘There's your light sabre. Now, sleepy-byes, bad guy. You've got
a lot of space fighting to do tonight.'

‘I det Maffyou wiff my lipe sayba. Pheeew. Pheeew. Pheeew.'

‘I'm sure we can rely on that.'

She collected her handbag and manoeuvred the stroller out to the street where she walked and window-shopped but purchased little. That old feeling, that little Annie feeling, was back today. She felt a distancing from the other shoppers, and the sound of cars on
the road was not so clear. Still, she could shake it off these days; she could kiss a sleepy face, tuck a tiny hand beneath a blanket, force her mind to deal with the present.

And it would have to be dealt with. Bronwyn would voice her hypothesis to her brothers. Ben would laugh it off. He'd known Sam, and still believed in him. But Johnny? Would he laugh it off, lie?

Warn May. That's what I
have to do. Warn May and tell her to forget about her invitations. Let May deal with it. And speak to Johnny. Let him know what Bron was thinking. Prepare him in
advance for her questions.

Her mind turned away from Bron to Ellie, who was having Jack's name added to the stone on the children's communal grave. She'd spent considerable time and paper in working out the words she might fit there.
At each meeting, she read her new condensed composition, seeking everyone's approval.

John William Burton, [Jack] beloved husband of Ellie, loved father of John, Ben, Ann and Bronwyn. Resting now with – .
The other names were already in place.

Ann had given this latest one her nod of approval, as she had given her nod to the other three. Only let it be done. Only let this chapter end. Only let
Christmas come and go and get Bron's baby born. A large space between now and Christmas. A long space to get through.

At two-thirty she walked back to the playgroup to collect Matthew. He was full up with news, and he had a chance to pour it out too. Darth Vadar and Beth were flat out, sleeping in the twin stroller.

‘An I drawed a bear. An I drawed a racing car.' Never a chatterbox, Matthew
could fill a silence when he found one to fill. Holding on to the stroller handle, he walked beside Ann, her little ocean-blue-eyed boy, her self-assured little man who wore Mandy's curls. She kissed his curls as they walked on to the school, chattering together until Benjamin and Dee's bunch joined them for the long walk home.

‘Why haven't we got your bus, Aunty Ann?' Dee's children preferred
to be driven home after a hard day at school.

‘Because six and one more make seven, Frances, and the van only holds six. Anyway, it's a beautiful day for walking.'

Eight months ago she and David had purchased a six-seater four-wheel drive. These days a family sedan limited the size of a family. They were paying it off, but they'd made the final payment on their house. Money had never been a
major problem. David was on a good wage, and unknown Sydney brides paid for the extras;
Ann's wedding dresses sold quickly at the Bridal Palace in Sydney. They'd been calling lately, wondering what had happened to her. She'd told them she was on maternity leave.

Her gowns were magic creations, stolen from
Cinderella
and
Gone With The Wind
. They sold for a fortune, and she could make one in a
week – used to be able to make one in a week. Hadn't made one in three months. Soon she'd get back to them. It was an odd occupation, though – hours of labour, then the posting away of her creation, never to be seen again. Malcolm Fletcher's creations were out there. He could pick them up, hold them in his hands. Maybe it was time to do something else, something that might expand the mind instead
of turning it off – something that might take her mind away from baby mush and milk.

She thought of Michael, her old boss at the Melbourne advertising agency. He hadn't wanted to lose her. He might be happy to employ her again – at a distance. She had a computer and could have a modem fitted. These days most of her writing was done directly onto the computer, and saved on the
Ann
file with the
taxable deductions. David was as free to read her poems as he was to peruse the annual lists of antibiotics, cough syrup and doctors' bills. Sooner or later there would be time to reclaim her life, so why not give it a kick-start? Contact Michael – if he was still in business. ‘I will,' she said.

‘Will what, Mummy?' little Ben asked.

‘Have chicken and chips for dinner,' she said.

At the barbecue
chicken shop, she bought a large chicken, chips and coleslaw for dinner, and a separate serve of chips to go, bribing her entourage on the long walk home.

Still addicted. Always addicted to salty chips, eaten hot from their paper.

‘Maybe I should get a job in a fish and chip shop,' she said, and her small addicts agreed that it was a very excellent idea.

Back at the house she left the two little
ones sleeping in the stroller and the two oldest playing with Dee's children. It was close
to four-thirty when she set out the row of bottles and began mixing formula.

The phone rang.

‘Damn it.' She reached for it, but changed her mind, allowing it to go to her answering machine, which was already flashing red. She'd been in demand while out walking the town.

Her attempt to breast-feed had
lasted for six weeks. Breast-feeding always reminded her of Ellie – Ellie walking around with a baby dangling, serving Jack's breakfast while a hungry mouth guzzled.

‘We are what we are and that's all that we are,' she said to a milk bottle. ‘We do what we do, the best we can do.' Large hands, efficient hands, they worked on.

‘Burton,' the disembodied voice spoke from her answering machine.
‘Your uncle has been attempting to contact – '

She snatched up the phone. ‘I'm here, sir.'

‘Ah. Vetting the calls now? A dastardly practice, Burton.'

‘My hands are full, sir.' She couldn't bring herself to call him Mr Fletcher. It sounded too cold, too distant. Fletch sounded disrespectful. ‘At least I don't leave my phone off the hook, like some people I know. What did you say?'

‘Samuel called.'

‘Sam called you!' She shook her head, pouring milk into a bottle.

‘He said he had left several messages on your machine.'

‘Sam?' She capped the bottle. ‘I just got in. I haven't had time to check it yet.'

‘He gave me a city hospital number. If you have a pen handy, Burton.'

‘What happened to him?'

‘His wife was involved in a car accident.'

One hand reaching for a pen, she paused. The room
had grown dark as a cloud passed over the sun. Little Annie stirred, sighed. Then the pen was in her hand and she shook her head, trying to
absorb the old man's words, trying to reason with herself as she stared at the window and at the sun, a pale ghost beneath the cloud.

Malcolm spoke the number three times before she had it trapped on paper.

‘What happened, sir?'

‘He gave few details, Burton,
but he was desperate to contact you. He said that his wife was asking for you.'

‘I'll call her,' she said. ‘Thank you. I'll call her now.'

And the phone was down, and Bethany stirring. Ann picked her up, not wanting her to disturb Tristan. She ran a bottle beneath cold water, sprinkled milk onto her wrist. Running water, splashing water, she stood there until she judged the temperature right,
then, holding both baby and bottle with one hand, she dialled the hospital number.

‘I'm inquiring after May Burton.'

It took some minutes before the voice returned. ‘She's still in surgery.'

‘Can you give me more information, please? I'm her niece.'

The speaker repeated her words. A computerised robot.

‘Can I speak to a doctor?' Ann said. ‘I'm in New South Wales. I want to know if it's serious.
If I should be there.'

‘Hold the line, please.' Ann held, tapped her foot. Held. Counted seconds, counted minutes – until a second woman's voice came on the line.

‘Her injuries are extensive. We are hopeful. I'm sorry, but I can't be more optimistic at this stage. If you could call back in an hour she should be out of surgery.'

Ann looked down at the contented baby, her little mouth working
hard on the teat. May had fed her a bottle only yesterday. She had burped her only yesterday, and had her spit up on the shoulder of her frock.

‘Could you give her a message, please? Could you tell her I am on my way? Or him, Samuel Burton – if he's around. Tell him
to . . . tell him to keep her safe for me. I'll be there as soon as possible.'

She played her messages back then. One was from
the Bridal Palace, and two from Sam.

Message for Ann. Samuel Burton calling. May has been injured in a car accident. They are operating at the moment. She asked for you before they took her in. I'll call back in half an hour
.

Ann skipped to the next message.
Ann. Samuel again. May is in the Alfred Hospital in Melbourne. She asked for you. I can be reached at the hospital.

Hours since he'd called
and May still in the operating theatre. It was almost five.

‘God. It's bad, Bethie. It's very bad.'

She played and replayed the messages, first seeking more information, then later, just to listen to that voice. It was Sam's voice. Very correct. More cultured than her father's. Hissing Ss.
Sssamuel
.

This was the illusive twin, trapped on tape. David had met him, had shaken his hand at the inquest.
David, plus this recording, might convince Bronwyn, might silence her questions. Ann didn't erase the message.

It was close to five-thirty before David arrived home. She met him in the garage and told him of May. ‘I have to go to her, David.'

‘It's too late to start out now. Go in the morning.'

‘I know he . . . Sam wouldn't have called Mr Fletcher unless . . . I think it's bad. I called them
again five minutes ago. She's still in surgery. I have to go tonight.'

‘It's late. It's a long drive and you're tired.' He looked at her and saw that old determination he had never been able to fight. ‘But you'll go anyway, won't you?'

‘I have to, David.' She returned ahead of him to the family room. ‘I bought some more disposable napkins today. And a chicken. Bron is coming for dinner. She'll
help get the boys down.'

‘We'll manage.'

‘I've made up the bottles. If you need more, just follow the
directions on the tin. I've made up a new solution for the bottles. Wash them well first.'

‘I've been there, done that. I'll manage.' He followed her upstairs, where she tossed a few items into her bag. He followed her to the bathroom, watched her pull a comb through her hair, then tie the
tamed curls high. ‘Take my car and be careful. Stop for a coffee every couple of hours.'

‘I'll try.' She kissed the boys, who tailed her every move, wide eyes questioning. ‘Mummy has to go for a long, long drive tonight. She'll be back tomorrow before you go to bed. Be good for Daddy.'

They followed her down to the garage, David watching their every step on the stairs. Then Ann was behind the
wheel, the motor running.

‘She's a part of something else, David. I know you don't understand. I don't know if I do either. All I know is that I have to see her.'

‘You're right. I don't understand. You didn't speak to her for five years.'

‘One day I'll try to explain.'

‘I wish you would. Take care, and don't speed. You know that your foot gets heavy when your mind starts to wander.' He kissed
her through the window, saving her a reply, then with a wave of her hand, and kisses blown, she was gone.