The Serpent's Skin

by Erina Reddan

  ‘But she was pretty Catholic,’ said Philly. ‘Why did she even want an abortion?’

  That stopped us in our tracks. Dad, too. He licked his lips. Looked shifty again. He searched the bare paddocks beyond the window. He bit his lips and looked at us each in turn again. He slowly rose, a sudden old man, and shuffled to the bench. He brought back the photo he’d kept hidden from us all those years, fumbled at the back of the frame.

  We leaned forwards.

  Philly saw it first. She recoiled, then stood up, eyes on the door, then half sat again. She stopped in mid air, stuck between whatever she already knew and what she didn’t want to know. She looked over to Ahmed, reached across to grip his hand, found enough to sit all the way down. Back still straight.

  We all looked back at Dad, who’d worried a corner of white paper out from the back of the photo.

  The rest of us got it at the same time.

  Finally, after all these years.

  Mum’s voice.

  I wanted to run, too.

  Dad had a large enough section of the note freed for him to slide-pull the rest of it out. His callused, farmer-thick hands trembled as they unfolded it four times and smoothed it flat on the table, creases worn thin from many unfoldings.

  He stared down, expressionless, knowing the words without reading them.

  If there was anyone breathing in the room, I couldn’t hear them.

  This was the moment.

  If I’d been religious I would’ve said what I heard was the slow, rhythmic beat of angels’ wings, like we were in the presence of something momentous.

  He pushed it towards Tessa.

  ‘Just one more lie, then, Dad,’ she said. ‘You told us there was no note.’

  He grimaced. ‘Didn’t lie. Not the first day, anyway. Found it under the bed the second day. That’s why I said first up she’d left us. Didn’t know any better.’

  He shrugged. ‘Couldn’t read it to you, though.’ He stopped until he found words again. ‘It was just… not… well, you’ll see.’

  Tessa stared at Dad as she pulled Mum’s words to her.

  She pressed the back of her wrist into each eye. She dropped her hand to her chest and pressed her palm flat against her heart.

  All of us let her take her time.

  All of us, suspended between the knowing and the not knowing.

  All of us.

  When her words came out, they were toneless.

  You played me for a fool, Jack McBride. With my own sister. And then that snake pit of lies you had me live in all these years. You are nothing more than a small man, playing at God, rotted through with hypocrisy.

  How dare you accuse me of being a sinner for helping Peg get rid of that baby. Your baby. The one you paid to have murdered, making such a show of how it was against your holy principles, and only out of Christian charity and knowing you’d be spending longer in purgatory because of it. Weren’t you the saviour? And me forever grateful to you afterwards. I only let her go because of what you’d done for her. The debt I owed you. And didn’t that suit your purposes.

  Yet you couldn’t bring yourself to do the same when it came to me. You’d rather see me dead than risk the world finding out that your wife had had an abortion, in defiance of the Holy Roman Catholic Church. The shame of ex-communication in front of Father McGinty, and the grown men at your club playing at Knights.

  You have broken my heart, crushed my soul, destroyed my faith.

  But I will do what needs to be done to stay alive. For our living children.

  Tell the kids I’ve gone to Peg’s for a few days because she’s had a turn and I’ll be too busy to call. Tell Tessa I’ve left a week’s worth of meals in the freezer. Do not call me. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to look you in your lying, hypocritical face again.

  Nobody filled the silence Tessa left. All of us seared in the scorch of Mum’s words from the grave. Dad hunkered down in the cave of his arms.

  It was both too much and not enough.

  ‘Why was having an abortion the thing that needed to be done to stay alive?’ asked Philly, the first to rally. ‘When it was so risky back then?’

  His disembodied voice, when it came, was muffled. ‘The doctor said she’d likely die if she had another one of yous.’ He dropped his arms away, straightened against the back of his chair like he was a mighty weight. ‘That’s what she was talking about that night. But I couldn’t give her the money, see?’ He appealed to us one by one, passing over Ahmed, Tye and Shelley, as if it were just us again, back in the capsule of the gone-ness of our mother. ‘We’d been so careful with the rhythm method for years. Not one slip-up. Except that one night. The night they made me President of the Knights. It was God’s will that she got pregnant again. She was in a blessed state. I told her she had to put herself in God’s hands. That, if she had an abortion, she’d end up in hell, but if she died in childbirth it was all part of God’s plan and at least she’d get to heaven. Told her that her everlasting soul was more important than her earthly body.’

  ‘Shit,’ I said, putting all the sorrow of the room into it.

  Tessa pressed her lips together to stop something getting out. Tim reached for Shelley. Philly curled into Ahmed, her legs into her armpits just like she used to do as a kid.

  I went the other way. I got out of the chair, picked up my plate, and dropped it in the sink. I held out my hand to Tye. He gripped it and together we went through the laundry, down the path, past the hole in the wall, got into the Austin.

  Maybe this finally was a big enough truth to make a difference.

  Your father forced your mother into a cheap backyard abortion and she bled out in some dark laneway, alone. But not unloved. Facts were funny things.

  I looked at Tye and he looked back, bathing me in kindness. He turned his body so he could put his palm on my still-flat belly, a question mark in the press of it. I knew what he was asking. After all this, what life would I choose? Because we both knew I had that choice now. Mum died because she couldn’t get a decent abortion. I turned to face him too, trying to read what was in his heart. But in the end it didn’t matter. We both knew it wasn’t his decision to make. I shook my head. The smallest of movements. I had clear air now for the first time After Mum. I needed to do some breathing for me before I could do it for somebody else. He nodded. The smallest of acknowledgements. I dropped my hand over his, entwining my fingers. He squeezed back, eyes still deep in mine. We held together in that long moment, letting it stretch across time, then I reached for the gear stick.

  ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  APPRECIATION

  The Serpent’s Skin is a love song to the many unseen people who are layered into it. The incredible women and men of the world I grew up in, who struggled every day to make life possible. The women in particular, who are the focus of The Serpent’s Skin, who lived with such heart and courage, arms around each other. To my sisters and brother, Therese, Geraldine, Gillian, Patrick and Kate, who lived this world with me, weaving a dirt-raw kind of magic in it all through stories, the Saturday night play and the funny trash talk. To our true-grit parents, Kathleen and Garry, who waged an epic daily battle to keep us out of the wheat field, creek, underground tank, away from snakes, put food on the table and make our clothes.

  I am so grateful to the people who laid out a path for me to arrive at this moment, either by backing my work, inspiring me, or suggesting a much better way of writing that sentence. Generous, smart and creative people like Toni Jordan, Alison Arnold, Antoni Jach, my agent, Fiona Inglis, and her Curtis Brown team, and my own fabulous team at Pantera Press, who are creatively inspired and passionate storytellers. Lex Hirst has the wizardry of getting directly to the gleaming gold motherlode in a story and the ability to help you widen it into all that it can be. Lucy Bell has the alchemy of a deep and intense focus that brings it all together. Special mentions, also, to the incredible word wranglers Kate O’Donnell and Rebecca Starford, and Alissa Dinallo, who desi
gned such a gorgeous, sensual cover.

  Big thanks to my beautiful, sharp-minded friends and colleagues in the writing world: The Secret Scribblers: Dee White, Karen Mcrea, Sue Yardley, Trudy Campbell, Christine Caley, Lou Mentor, Ian Robertson, Fiona White, Jodie Passmore, Kevin Childs and Trish Staig; The Writerlies: Ann Bolch, Rebecca Colless, Mary Delahunty, Ilka Tampke, Vivian Ulman; The Dodd St group: Caroline Petit, Lyndal Caffrey, Nick Gadd, Lisa Bigelow, Sarah Schmidt, Evelyn Tsitas, Stephen Mitchell; and my Masterclass mates: Anne Buist, Emily Collyer, Anna Dusk, Tasha Haines, Lisa Jacobs, Josh Lefers, Rocco Russo Clive Wansbrough, as well as Jenny Ackland, Serje Jones, Christina Stripp, Donna Ward, Geraldine Coren and Kimberly Duncan and many others who I’ve worked with through the magnificence of Writers Victoria. We create in unseen places moments of great depth and together we strive to make them more.

  I’m blown away by the profound generosity of Graeme Simsion, Christos Tsiolkas, Toni Jordan, Sarah Macdonald, Sarah Schmidt and Elise McCredie, who took the considerable time and focus away from their own work to read The Serpent’s Skin and back it. The support of incredible writers, thinkers and storytellers like you all is one of the key reasons why Australian storytelling is still so vibrant, even given all the challenges. In the power of your work, in your contribution to the cultural conversation and in this kind of support you are a gift to us all.

  I’m also grateful to my inspiring and deep-souled friends: Amanda Collinge, Susie Daniel, Clare Kermond and Cathy MacMahon, who went the extra mile to support me, as always, and bring The Serpent’s Skin into the world. Thanks also to the generous people who helped me with research on all kinds of random things like legal practice, funeral processes, canon law matters, and how to make friends with the social media beast.

  Thanks to the people who keep my heart and soul nourished, laugh at me, and sometimes with me: the man of joy and wild ideas, my rock and home, Victor Del Rio; the deep thinking and sun-hearted Maya Del Rio Reddan; the whip-smart and sassy Alena Del Rio Reddan; the wise, hilarious and original, Andrea Rieniets; my avatar companion through life, Yolanda Romeo AKA Shiel; the clever and creative, Cathy Appleton; my “oldest friends” Karen Quinlan and Fran Barresi; my nieces, nephews, heart-adopted daughters and the wider Reddan tribe; las mujeres poderosas del Sindicato; and the rest of my Australian-Latino family; the joy-filled and loving tribu Del Rio; my gorgeous Sydney gang; the film crew; the Gaia Girls; the power coaches; the BBS; and my Macedon Ranges friends. For all that we are to each other both on the page and beyond, a big heart-expanding thank you.

  BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS

  1.Which McBride sibling do you find most relatable?

  2.JJ is accused by those around her as being a troublemaker, both when she’s a child and as an adult. Do you think this is fair? How do you think this has affected her?

  3.There is a strong presence of animals in this story – as well as the titular snakes, there’s also the piglets, the joey, the ferrets, crows, the grey brumby, Doll the dog and Max the bull. Choose an animal and explain what it contributes to the story.

  4.How do gender roles affect the members of the McBride family? The women in this novel all display different kinds of strength. What do you think the book has to say about womanhood and girlhood. How is masculinity depicted?

  5.How do Jack’s values inform his actions? Can they be seen as a justification?

  6.Why do you think JJ was more driven to uncover the truth than the rest of her family?

  7.JJ is reading Alice in Wonderland when her mother disappears. Fourteen years later, her sister is reading the same book. What significance does this have?

  8.Why do you think the community labelled Peg as a mad woman? Do you think she was?

  9.What does JJ have in common with the people in her boarding house (Marge, Rocco, Rat-Tail)?

  10.Do you think Jack is genuinely remorseful over losing Sarah? Do you think he would do anything differently if he could? Explain why or why not.

  11.JJ’s mother taught her about flowers and their meanings. How does this play into the story?

  12.Why do you think Sarah decided to leave Jack? Do you believe it was for good?

  About the author

  Erina has worked with words, ideas and stories all her life. She started out as a journalist, working in radio and television and was awarded the prestigious Walkley Award for her work as an ABC foreign correspondent. She has a Master’s Degree in Professional Writing (University of Technology Sydney) and a PhD in Creative Writing (La Trobe University) on girl warriors and ball gowns. She’s taught politics at the University of Melbourne and creative writing at LaTrobe University and Writers Victoria. Her family claims she can glamorise a handful of facts beyond recognition in the service of an entertaining story, sometimes at the expense of truth but always in favour of wonder.

  You can talk with Erina via @erinareddan or catch up with her via her website.

  Sons are the anchors of a mother’s life.

  Sophocles

  Who lies for you will lie against you.

  John Locke

  RED BELLY BLACK SNAKE

  I remember running through

  fire blanket air, humid, heavy. Rotting sweet

  sick mangoes. Fruit bat wings

  rattling open, heavy curtains on

  frail white rods. Running, like a

  river slithers through cane fields, a

  black snake

  in flames. A hissing

  match struck, and running.

  Shirley Blakely, from Sugarcane Poems, 1958

  PROLOGUE

  AURORA | Goddess of Morning

  Protector of childbirth. Often portrayed in Roman art as a young woman with wings like the dawn sky. She killed her own son in a jealous rage.

  from Images of Women in Roman Art, by Phoebe Wharton

  PHOEBE

  You are not a firebug. If you killed anyone, I’d know. I know you. All those hours with your warm infant self damp against my shoulder, all that time cooking vegetables in ways you ate only once, all those afternoons cheering your team to football losses, frustrated over incomplete homework, holding you while you cried over grazed knees or the unkindness of schoolgirls – our shared umbilical cord must have left a residual connection, a spiritual navel. No one could be more sure of anything than me, of this. You are not a firebug.

  Your committal hearing starts tomorrow. Of course I can’t sleep. I lie here, now and then reaching for my notebook or getting up to pace through the house. Like a trial, every bushfire tells a story. Every bushfire has a beginning, a middle, an end. A year ago, smoke from the Brunton fire twisted around our window frames, slid under the door, forced its fingers through keyholes. I’ve been unable to keep the outside world out since then. Fire didn’t destroy our home, but the rumours that came afterwards did. Attacks continue whenever I check my email or the news. Your lawyer says it isn’t wise for us to begin your defence yet. But I must defend you, get my thoughts in order. Every fire has a beginning, but not every fire is begun by an arsonist. Every trial has an ending, not every ending is just.

  Before teaching, I studied art history. Now, in my notebook, information about ancient Roman mosaics has been supplanted by research about accelerants, motives for arson, rising global temperatures, wind patterns, the forensic distribution of burned eucalyptus leaves. Now, instead of wondering what excavated art reveals about Roman life, I wonder how anything withstands time or fire. I once studied a mosaic showing the goddess Demeter abandoning the Earth to drought while she rescued her child from the kidnapper Hades. It’s the judicial system that has kidnapped you, but I am just as maddened by the need to rescue you. You’ve been in custody. Even on bail, darkness has imprisoned you. You might be returned to jail, this time for years. I need strength to keep you home.

  It’s months since the first kookaburra returned to our yard, perched on a ruined manna gum branch. Other animals have returned to the Yarra Valley – cattle, sheep, kangaroos. I see them when I’m out ru
nning. Again in the mornings, I hear the warbling of magpie song through air unstained by smoke. Later in the day, once again currawongs squawk. New leaves grow on surviving trees. Along the dark ground and up the towering ghosts of eucalypts, new leaves grow, a bright surprising green. Though our neighbours and the council have fought them, imported weeds have also sprung to life: thistles, asphodel, turnip weed, blackberries. Your grandmother’s old car, the one you tried so disastrously to drive, is now part of a Bushfire Art collection at the gallery where I once volunteered. Its puddles of aluminium and steel, once melted over our driveway, have resolidified into uncanny shapes on a polished wood floor. Meanwhile, in this valley where city and bush overlap, we’ve endured the encouraging and uncomprehending visits of religious leaders and minor royals offering symbolic seed packets and platitudes. Country Clubs have relit their tennis courts and re-laid their croquet grass over land that even before the fires had already been purposed and repurposed. It might appear peaceful country but this is a restless, changing place. The world is changing and we have to deal with it. Those who don’t want to look instead for targets like you.

  I’ll never sleep. I wrap myself in my dressing gown and pace the hall to your bedroom. I stand at your window. Lights from the nearby Retirement Home and the further away town blink across the night-dark dry creek bed, site of your alleged crimes.

  Other fires have lapped at Brunton’s outskirts, singeing its fabric, burning off its loose threads. But this one caught the entire community, destroying its warp and weft, leaving nothing but ashes, as surely as it destroyed the people who died. Every local family has regrets. Beneath every rooftop and buried in every building site is the story of some small decision that could have been made differently and saved a life – or cost one. Few people truly survived: police are increasingly called to deal with domestic violence and alcohol. The house right next door to ours pulses with poisonous emotions. Its owner, Rosie Henderson, hates you. I still believe there’s some truth I can find to free you, but it seems I’m alone.