Marjorie loved Christmas. Because Elise loved it. It was a good time. Elise and Marjorie and Ruby sat at the kitchen table on warm summer nights and made things. They were wishful and gentle as they talked of life for Ruby after the Leaving Certificate. As they swathed the kitchen and the lounge room with crepe paper chains. As they watched their mother finish off beautiful hand-drawn Christmas cards, as they wrote in them and readied them for posting. Last year’s Christmas cards were transformed into Christmas tree decorations. The house smelt lovely – of pungent Mallee pine. And the only glitter to be seen anywhere was the properly placed glitter on the Christmas decorations.
But even with these happy times, Elise was eroding. Drifting away. Not even Christmas could stop it. She was like a sandhill battered ever so insistently and ever so slowly by a hot north wind, the hill diminishing as the stuff of the sandhill was dragged away by the wind. But the pull of the wind and the diminution of the sand was subtle and unremarkable. The sand drifted over the crest of the hill, gradually leaking away until the sandhill was not what it used to be. Until a whole lot of what it used to be was on the other side, blocking the road.
No two motives with Elise were ever the same. But there was a pattern. A gradual dissolution – triggered by something only known to Elise (but dust storms are like that); an unhurried, distracted walk to madness; a time of terror as madness pulled Elise through its door; and then the return.
This time Elise chose religion – which was convenient, because she could hide in her gradual, devout deterioration for a long time before anyone noticed. And she could contemplate at her leisure all those thoughts about her failure of sanctification.
Marjorie and Jesse continued in their pattern as well. They were a habit. They ran at night and in the dark and in a secret known only to the two of them. And in the dark at Jimmy Waghorn’s place they shared their secrets. They loved each other.
Ruby went to live with Aunty Agnes after Christmas. And Jesse and Marjorie started their Leaving Certificates and took to sitting beside each other on the school bus. They didn’t talk. They just sat. Marjorie with her head stuck in a book and Jesse sleeping. They didn’t need to talk during the day and they didn’t want to talk during the day. Talking was for the night and for Jimmy’s place.
*
It was spring of that Leaving Certificate year. Everyone else was off at the local field day. And Marjorie organised another tour of the house. This time to see Elise’s art folio. They drank Elise’s coffee and smoked Bill’s smokes. And Marjorie showed Jesse the treasure. A haphazard pile of forbidden bohemian talent shoved under the bed in the spare bedroom.
Jesse was awestruck at the richness of Elise’s art. He sifted through them all – charcoal and pencil drawings, unfinished sketches, finished and unfinished oil paintings. Paintings of the Mallee. Drawings of Ruby and Marjorie. A sketch of Bill. One of Pa. ‘Why doesn’t she hang any of them up?’
Marjorie shrugged. ‘We don’t know. We’ve asked. But it’s not worth it.’
Elise was not the same, though, when Jesse visited the second time. She was meditating on how to absolve herself of her terrible sins. There were signs, if anyone wanted to pay attention. But Marjorie was too busy with her study and her Jimmy Waghorn runs. And Ruby was too busy with her teachers’ college and living at Aunty Agnes’s. And Bill was too busy down the back paddock. And Pa was too busy with the rabbits.
Elise sang and played the piano. And it was particularly beautiful. It was all about religion. But much of the masters’ works were based on religious themes. And, anyway, with a voice like that, who was going to tell Elise not to sing Rossini’s ‘Born but to Labour in Sorrow’; or ‘Ave Maria’?
With all that busyness from everybody roundabout, Elise was left alone. She had the blessing of solitude to meditate uninterrupted – like a cloistered nun. This time she didn’t need the medium of plastic flowers. She had undergone a transfiguration. Now she only needed to listen to the messages in her head. So Elise sat there, in her kitchen, and watched the fire in the kitchen stove. The coffee percolator popped and burbled. And the message murmured so kindly to Elise was comforting, because it was familiar.
What are you doing this time, Elise, so your sins can be absolved? What are you doing about your perilous lack of grace? What is your fitting and enduring penance so that you can be made good enough? For you are not hallowed.
The fire burnt bright. Until it was nearing Christmas again. School holidays were just a few weeks away, and Marjorie was looking forward to Ruby coming home; and to her and Jessie and long, lazy, summer nights at Jimmy’s place. Then Marjorie came back one night from Jimmy’s to find the kitchen light on. She stood in the dark and saw Elise moving about. It was a warm night but Marjorie shivered. She changed into her nightie and walked – slow and careful – into the kitchen.
‘Hello, Marjorie dear,’ said Elise, unperturbed by the sight of her daughter walking through the back door in the middle of the night. Elise was at the stove, shoving paper into the fire. She had piles of paper screwed up at her feet waiting their turn. The heat from the stove blasted Marjorie and she felt chilled to the bone.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked. ‘It’s way past midnight.’
‘I’m just cleaning out the rubbish.’
Marjorie moved towards Elise to try to see what she was burning. ‘What rubbish?’
‘My old rubbish. Useless things.’
Marjorie couldn’t think of anything to do but watch. So she sat and watched until the whole pile waiting at Elise’s feet had disappeared into the stove. When the last piece of paper had gone Marjorie spoke. ‘Come on, Mum. It’s time we both went to bed.’
‘Yes, dear,’ Elise agreed cheerily. ‘That’s enough for one night.’
It took Marjorie a long time to get to sleep. She was scared again.
Marjorie didn’t tell Bill. He was too busy with the harvest down in the back paddocks. She didn’t tell Pa. He would have thought it was a good thing Elise was cleaning up. She didn’t tell Ruby. She was not here anymore. Marjorie kept an eye on Elise. And told the only person she could tell.
‘Mum was up when I got back last time. She was burning stuff.’
Jesse stopped poking the fire and watched Marjorie. ‘Does that matter?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘Have you noticed anything else?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe she was just cleaning up?’
‘Maybe.’
They were right, of course. Elise was cleaning up. She was cleaning up her life. It was hard to get rid of such an accumulation of wickedness, but the fire offered constant encouragement. And Elise’s smile changed. She didn’t need the trappings of earthly glitter in her smile this time. Now she smiled the serene smile of the acolyte as she drifted down her chosen path.
‘How is your mother?’ asked Jesse the next time.
‘Still burning stuff.’
‘Anything else?’
‘No. Apart from all the burning, everything else seems normal,’ said Marjorie. ‘For our house, anyway.’
‘Why don’t you tell your father?’ suggested Jesse. ‘Maybe he’s noticed something too?’
Marjorie just looked at Jesse. And Jesse shrugged. They knew each of them had their jobs to do in their families. And they just had to get on and do them.
‘Apparently God has no longer forsaken the Mallee,’ announced Marjorie at the next meeting.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Mum always used to complain about the godforsaken Mallee,’ said Marjorie. ‘But God forsakes no longer. Mum’s changing religions. She’s going to become a Catholic.’
‘Is that a problem?’
‘I don’t know. The Catholics are all over the moon. Pa is smug.’ Marjorie stared at the fire. But the fire wasn’t giving any help. That, apparently, was a special di
spensation afforded only to Elise.
‘She’s spending all her time on religious stuff. But I suppose she has to.’ Marjorie stared again at the non-responsive fire. ‘It’s probably nothing.’
Jesse didn’t say anything, but he was not so sure.
*
A few nights later Marjorie started awake in the dark of the night. Woken by the train traversing the horizon and calling out to her – clickety-clack, better wake up, clickety-clack, better wake up. She stared into the dark and registered it was the second train. The one before dawn. And realised why the train had warned her. Elise was up and in the kitchen. Marjorie could hear her singing and moving about. There was a burning smell.
But Marjorie was wrong. Elise wasn’t in the kitchen. And neither was the fire.
Marjorie wanted to call out to Ruby across the dark, like she always used to. But Ruby couldn’t possibly have heard her from all those hundreds of miles away, tucked up nice and safe at Aunty Agnes’s place.
Marjorie crept out of bed and followed the smell and the sound. A fire full of embers and sparks, crackling, and charred paper, and scorched Mallee trees. Panic lurched and swayed and leapt out of the shadows at her. She ran – all crooked-armed and wobbly-legged in her panic – down the hallway and out the back door.
The bonfire down by the tank stand was busy. The tank stand and the back gate and the Mallee crowding around in the dark were glowing from the reflected heat and the anticipation of participation. Elise was pulling pages from a notebook and throwing them onto the inferno. Each page was caught by the fire and consumed before the jubilant fire released it to the night. Glowing and flaming pages danced overhead, fluttering off into the Mallee in all directions. Elise was singing. She was bright with energy. Bright with burning.
‘What are you doing with that fire?’ Marjorie tried to run at her mother, but her legs couldn’t do it. It was like a huge salt lake had shoved itself between her and her mother and she was spluttering – drowning in salt water. She flailed her arms.
Elise paused. She stared at Marjorie. ‘Shut the door. You were not born in a tent.’ She resumed her beautiful singing.
‘What are you doing, Mum?’ shouted Marjorie. ‘This is not the kitchen. You’re outside.’
Elise stopped – notebook in one hand and a torn and crumpled page poised for sacrifice in the other. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Of course this is the kitchen. Ladies don’t go out in the dark and light fires willy-nilly.’
‘What is that? Give me that.’ Marjorie, recognising the book, grabbed at Elise. It was Elise’s sketchbook.
Marjorie was yelling now. ‘They’re your sketches. Stop it.’ She lunged again and grabbed the book.
Elise rose up. ‘How dare you? Give that book back.’
‘Get away from me,’ Marjorie shrieked as she ran for the other side of the fire.
But that wasn’t going to stop Elise. She had eternal absolution to consider. Elise chased after Marjorie. ‘You are not worthy. Give me the book,’ she said, stumbling and swiping.
The fire took this opportunity to invite the tank stand to participate. So the tank stand quickly bent one knee at the devotion displayed by Elise. And just as quickly offered its remaining limbs to the holy conflagration. The scrub nearby was ecstatic with the blessing of the floating, flaming pages. It, too, joined the worship as its leaves crackled and burnt. And the sun decided to peer over the sandhill to see what the disturbance was all about.
Elise emerged through the smoke, purified and determined. She was calm. Smoke was drifting from her dress. ‘You are not worthy, Marjorie,’ she said. ‘You are a bold, brazen little article. Give me the book.’ She held out her hands.
‘Wake up!’ Marjorie screamed into the air and tears burst from her eyeballs. But the water was as useless as ever. She couldn’t see where she was going because of the tears. She couldn’t see where Elise was going because of the tears. And even though the tears were bursting from Marjorie’s eyeballs like water spurting out from the top of a windmill tank when someone had carelessly forgotten to turn the windmill off, there was not near enough of them to put out the fire. ‘Dad, Pa, where are you?’ She was sobbing now – another useless activity. ‘The tank stand’s on fire. The trees are on fire. Mum’s on fire. Please!’ She ran from Elise and her holy inferno.
Time decided to leave Marjorie. She seemed to be running forever with smoke and burning trees and crippled tank stands running with her. With Elise somewhere in the fire-coated darkness demanding her book. But suddenly there was Bill with a bucket and he was throwing water over the holy fire and on the tank stand and sloshing it at the trees. Pa was there – still in his pyjamas. Not Ruby. She was safe with Aunty Agnes. ‘Mum is burnt. Mum is burnt,’ said Marjorie over and over. She clutched the remains of the sketchbook to her chest, sank down in the dirt and howled. Despite their inability to do anything useful, the tears would not stop breaking out of her eyeballs and spilling down her ashen cheeks.
Before proper time came back to Marjorie, Pa had put out the fires. And Elise was coaxed gently into the kitchen by Bill. Where the family then dealt with the burning disaster and the management of secret family business:
—The burnt tank stand was useless but the rainwater tank was alright: Bill’s assessment.
—The fires were smouldering but no longer a threat; Pa would be on fire watch just in case: Pa’s evaluation.
—Elise was burnt; someone would have to take Elise to the doctor: Bill’s evaluation.
—Elise was raving mad; someone would have to take Elise to the doctor: Marjorie’s evaluation.
—Who had let Elise get like this? Everyone’s question.
—Why didn’t someone stop her? Everyone’s question.
—Why didn’t I stop her? Marjorie’s question.
Marjorie went with Bill. He was going to need help with Elise in the car. Sometimes Elise was quiet and contemplative – she sang and prayed out loud to saints across the centuries. Other times she tried to climb over the seat to flail and rail at Marjorie. ‘You stole my Act of Contrition,’ Elise wailed over and over, as the car trudged through the early-morning sandhills to the local doctor.
Marjorie sat, teeth clenched and face stony. She had nowhere to go. She was trapped in the car and she didn’t even have a book she could run into.
‘The burns are superficial. Nothing to worry about,’ said the doctor. ‘But I’m worried about her state of mind. I wouldn’t say she is floridly psychotic. But she’s close to it.’
‘What does that mean?’ demanded Marjorie, watching her mother’s incessant pacing.
‘Don’t be rude, Marjorie,’ said Bill.
‘It means your mother’s sanity is compromised.’
Elise took a print from the surgery wall and smashed it over Bill’s head. ‘Horrible thing,’ she said. ‘I can’t abide bad art.’
‘Can we give her some drugs?’ asked Bill, holding Elise tight.
‘I will give her an injection now to calm her down,’ the doctor said. ‘And a prescription for tablets to try to keep her calm. But you need to be prepared. We might be heading for another serious nervous breakdown.’
Bill blinked rapidly and his eyes got moist. Bill and the doctor talked and planned. Elise muttered and whispered. Marjorie sat and stared.
Everyone did what they could.
The doctor sent Elise home with veins full of drugs and hands full of tablets. To tide them over.
Bill tended Elise with the greatest of gentleness. While to Marjorie he cried: ‘How did she get like this?’
I don’t know! thought Marjorie.
‘I asked you to look after your mother. Can you just do that one thing? Can you just tend to your mother?’
No, thought Marjorie. I can’t. I can’t do it.
Pa took to coming in the back door any old time of the day. ‘Won’t hurt if those flam
in’ rabbits are left for a bit,’ he said. ‘Might just sit here in the kitchen and read the Sporting Globe.’
‘Flamin’ hell,’ said the cocky.
The doctor made enquiries – in case the compromised sanity wasn’t reparable and a major nervous breakdown turned up.
Bill and Pa made preparations in the event of another drive to a mental hospital. Just in case.
The telephone exchange operator spent hours in a frenzy of porcelain plugs and snaking brown cords. Family roundabout were called. Locals were called. Family far away were called. Ruby had to come home to help with the watching.
Ruby and Marjorie watched their mother. And watched her. Elise humoured them. She put the tablets in her mouth with some rainwater to wash them down.
But Elise had her own ideas about what to do with tablets. It was hard work and had to be done carefully – so as not to scare and scatter. Much like yarding a couple of thousand head of sheep and separating the ewes from the wethers. Elise pursued the tablets relentlessly like a well-trained sheepdog. She rounded them up and separated them from the water and yarded them on their own under her tongue. Because Elise was not prepared to forgo her own spiritual commitments – not even for self-deposited, pre-paid, damn fool mental institution commitments. So when Ruby and Marjorie were not looking, Elise opened the yarding gate and popped the tablets into the waiting stove.
*
‘One of our tank stands caught on fire a couple of weeks ago,’ said Marjorie, jogging out of the Mallee night into the waiting campfire light.
‘Hello would be an appropriate conversation starter – given the length of time since you were here last,’ said Jesse. ‘Where have you been anyway?’
Wearing Paper Dresses Page 20
