Maggie wondered if he still found her so attractive now, after having had his hands on her. Then, before she could form an opinion one way or another, she pushed the thought from her mind, or at least shoved it into the far recesses where it was less likely to play havoc with her emotions. She wiped the tears from her face. She needed to be objective about the situation if she was to get through it with her soul intact. It was difficult enough rationalising what she knew for fact without clouding the issue with speculations and assumptions.
“Okay then,” Maggie said with a degree of composure she didn’t feel, “back to my original question; why did he do it?” She felt foolish for speaking aloud, but she didn’t care. There was no one around to witness her behaviour, so what did it matter if she talked to herself?
Pleased with her newfound strength, Maggie searched for clues amongst the few snippets of fact that she possessed. She knew that Peter had been distracted of late. Thinking about it on the long drive to the cottage, she had assumed that his distraction was the result of his illicit affair with Jane, the timing certainly suggested that to be the case. However, after further consideration, she wondered if there weren’t some other problem instead. Maybe the issue that had been distracting Peter was the same issue that had caused him to look elsewhere for a relationship in the first place. And perhaps his affair with Jane was a merely symptom of something else.
Maggie shelved the possibility of a bigger problem and continued to search for a more favourable explanation; one that did not suggest that she was integral to Peter’s infidelity. She even wondered where Marjorie belonged in the picture. Hadn’t she re-entered his life around the same time that Maggie had sensed the change in Peter? That could be it, she decided; even Maggie had found Marjorie’s presence disturbing, especially the damn phone calls.
Hang on a minute, thought Maggie, as she put another piece of the puzzle together. Michelle had said that Marjorie was not the one making the phone calls, and she had been right. It had been Jane all along, not Marjory; of that Maggie was now certain. How else could she explain what Roger had heard on the phone that afternoon? What was it the caller had asked, “Why won’t you see me,” or something of the sort. Roger had also said that it sounded like the caller was crying on the other end of the line; no doubt, Jane was upset by Peter's refusal to see her. That would certainly explain why, whenever Maggie answered the phone, the line would go dead, yet when Roger answered it, the caller spoke. Jane must have thought he was Peter. Maggie also recalled that Peter's reaction to the call had been a bit odd. At the time she had accepted his explanation and had simply written it off as Marjorie being melodramatic.
Finally, things were starting to make sense. If Peter had known that it was Jane calling, and she suspected that he did, then naturally he would have been uncomfortable with the situation. While Maggie was confident that she was correct in her assessment, she did not like the implication it presented. If Jane’s calls were the cause of Peter's discomfort it meant that Maggie could still be the cause of his infidelities.
At least it confirmed that Peter had indeed been the one to call it quits.
Maggie sighed. Who was she kidding? She had already known that Peter had been the one to put an end to the relationship; Jane had said so herself. She had also said something about her coming on to him. Or had she? Careful not to analyse the situation too much, Maggie was certain that Jane had made a crude remark about what had taken place when she had come on to Peter.
She didn’t know why, but Maggie felt her sprits lift the tiniest amount. For some reason, it made her feel better knowing that it was the second thing that Peter had told the truth about. She knew it shouldn’t make an ounce of difference either way; it was not like it changed what he had done. Still, she supposed it meant that if he was telling the truth about those things, then he might also be telling the truth about everything else. Maybe he had called it off because he had loved Maggie too much to keep the affair going. Maybe it was just an ego-trip he was on and the relationship with Jane never really had any substance. And lastly, maybe Peter’s edginess was simply the result of his guilty conscience and not evidence of a problem with their relationship.
Maggie realised with annoyance that she was just shy of making excuses for him. “Damn you, Peter,” she said aloud, “how dare you? Here I am, almost feeling sorry for you, for Christ’s sake, and you’re the one that cheated on me. You fucking bastard!”
It felt good to finally lose her cool. All day she had tried hard to stay in control when what she really needed to do was just lash out and say all the things she felt. Convinced that she would feel better for really letting go, she gave it another try. “Shit head! Filthy stinking cheat!” her voice became louder, “Arsehole! Rotten mongrel!” And louder still, “Bastard!”
By the time the last word was out, Maggie was sitting upright in her chair, fists clenched beside her, neck stretched up for ease of yelling, her face red from exertion. She looked around self-consciously. Apart from the Magpie that had come to greet her yesterday, Maggie couldn’t see another living soul. Just as well, she thought, after that little outburst. Still, it had made her feel better, so she made no apologies for her juvenile behaviour. “Why the hell shouldn’t I act like a juvenile, anyway,” she asked the bird, “wasn’t it his juvenile behaviour that got me into this mess in the first place?”
Despite the sudden burst of conversation seemingly directed at it, the Magpie looked around disinterestedly. Maggie lit a cigarette and studied the bird as she blew the smoke out through her nostrils. “So, now what?” she questioned her companion. “Didn’t I come to the cottage to think things through? Yet, here I am a day later without a single idea as to what to do next.” Afraid that she would keep pressing for answers that it was unable to give, the magpie scurried to the end of the veranda and took flight. “Fine; don’t talk to me then,” Maggie called after it.
Magpie quickly forgotten, Maggie knew that part of what she had hoped to achieve by coming to Bellbird Cottage was to reconcile her feelings and thoughts in some way, but now that she had arrived, she found that she lacked the know-how to do so. She knew that she still loved Peter – yet, at the same time, she didn’t know if she would ever be able to forgive him for what he had done. And, if that were the case, then what kind of marriage would they have? She tried to consider what her life would be like without Peter, but found that she kept coming back to things they had done together and places they had been, and of the promises they had made. She tried not to cry again as she cursed him for her torment. She had believed that they were soul mates, yet she had difficulty accepting that a soul mate would do the things that Peter had done.
Maggie was aware that her mood was spiralling downwards again and chastised herself for letting it slip. She knew in her heart that what she and Peter felt for each other was real, but she couldn’t seem to remember that when she contemplated his betrayal. She sighed heavily. She wished she were more like Mary. Simple, pleasant Mary, who seemed to take everything in her stride and never complain about her husband’s philandering. But then again, if she had been more like Mary, it was likely that her and Peter's relationship would have been more like Roger and Mary’s also, and that was simply unthinkable. Maggie recalled the countless times that she had pitied them their union. She would compare it with what she shared with Peter and feel sorry for them; their marriage a mere shadow of her own.
But, that was before, Maggie thought bitterly. Before Peter had cheated on her, and before he had put her in a position to question everything that existed between them.
Damn him, she thought, damn him to hell!
Chapter 54
Wednesday, 2 January 1980
The librarian watched us enter from behind her glasses. She continued to busy herself rearranging papers on the counter before eventually acknowledging our presence. “What can I do for you?” she asked, without a hint of a smile.
“We’re looking for some books about ghosts an
d stuff,” Tom told her.
She considered Tom’s answer for a moment before lifting the panel in the counter and walking through the gap. “I think I have exactly what you’re looking for. Come this way.”
We followed her over to the kid’s section and watched as she ran her finger along a row of books. She stopped at the one she was looking for and pulled it out and handed it to Tom. “Here you go, this one’s very popular, I’m sure you’ll love it.”
Tom read the title aloud. A Handful of Ghosts.
The librarian was just about to walk off when Tom shook his head. She mistook his gesture to mean he didn’t like the book and very efficiently reached down and selected him another one. “Here,” she handed him the book, “this might be closer to what you’re looking for.”
Tom took the copy of Uncle Gustav’s Ghosts from her and turned it over to read the back. I pointed to the author’s name on the book. “Hey, he wrote Storm Boy.” The librarian looked at me and nodded her approval. “I love that story. It’s one of my favourites.”
Tom frowned at me. “But it’s not the right kind,” he said under his breath.
The librarian overheard him and turned around. “Still not what you’re after?” She pursed her lips until they resembled a cat’s bum.
She was clearly annoyed at us for rejecting her offer for a second time, so I thought I should say something before she got too angry to be of any help. “I think I’ll take this one, thanks.” She looked at Tom and gave him a smug smile. I could see that she was going to be hard to win over, so I put on my nicest voice. “But do you have any books on ghosts that aren’t kid’s stories?”
Her smile disappeared. “Perhaps if you tell me what you need them for, I’ll have a better idea of what you’re after.”
“Well,” I carefully considered what to say next, “my sister asked me to find a book about ghosts. She wants to find out about séances and stuff like that.”
The look on her face told me that she was not buying my story. “If I’m not mistaken, the first book I recommended has a story in it about séances.”
It was hard to imagine that she’d ever been wrong about anything.
“Oh,” Tom looked like he’d just been caught stealing his dad’s chocolate biscuits. “We’ll lend that one too then.”
“You mean borrow,” she corrected. “The library will lend you the book; you will borrow it.”
He looked suitably reprimanded.
“I think my sister wants a serious book, if you know what I mean.” I gave her one of my best smiles in the hope it might melt some of the ice she had packed around her heart.
It didn’t work. “And why can’t your sister come and have a look for herself?” She put her hands on her hips and made a cat’s bum again.
“Um…she fell off a horse and broke her leg, so now she’s stuck at home with nothing to do. I told her that I would come and find some books for her so that she could work on her project.” My words came out way too fast to be believable, but at least Tom looked impressed with my tale.
“She goes to university you know? That’s why she has assignments in the school holidays,” Tom added.
The librarian walked off towards the back of the library. Tom looked at me and pulled a face. Not sure if we were supposed to follow or not, I shrugged my shoulders and took off after her. Tom did the same.
“There you go,” she pointed to a couple of rows of books, “you might find what you’re after in that lot, otherwise I can’t help you.” She turned on her heels and stormed off.
“Jeez, what’s up her bum?” Tom asked as soon as she was out of earshot. I’d already started pulling books off the shelf and didn’t bother to answer. I handed Tom a book. “Hey, here’s one on reincarnation.”
Tom looked briefly at the cover and handed it back. “Who’s Edgar Cayce?”
“Dunno, probably the author.”
“Nah. Look, this guy’s the author,” he pointed to a name on the book’s spine.
“Well I dunno then, it’s probably just who the story’s about.” I flipped through the pages, looking for something worthy to read. “Look,” I pointed excitedly to a sentence in the book, “it says that when he gets hypnotised he becomes someone else.”
“Show me,” Tom snatched the book from me. “Hmm; does too.”
I put the book to the side and kept looking. There were lots of books that didn’t make much sense, but we eventually got one that claimed to be about real ghost stories. “This one should do.” I stacked In Search of Ghosts and the book about reincarnation on top of the two from the children’s section and deliberately left the rest on the floor for the librarian to put away. I’m only allowed to borrow four books at a time, so I had to put the book on witchcraft back.
I walked to the counter and handed Miss Uppity the books. I watched while she went through them and took the library cards out, slamming the covers shut after each one was removed. She took a moment to study the cards and then made a show of looking back through the books again. She shook her head and tutted, “You can’t borrow these,” she said, tapping her long nails on the books about reincarnation and ghosts, “they’re not from the children’s section.”
What? She had to be kidding.
Tom caught up with me at the counter. “What’s up?”
I was just about to say something, but the look on her face stopped me in my tracks. “Nothing; I can only borrow from the kid’s section, that’s all.” It was pretty obvious by Miss Uppity’s smarmy smile that she had deliberately not told us that I was only allowed to borrow from the children’s section, but I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of showing that I cared. Instead, I handed her my library card, “I’ll just take these then.” I gave her an equally smarmy smile.
She took the relevant details and stamped the due date on the inside of the books. “They’re due back in two weeks.”
I took the books from her, taking care to avoid any contact with her hand. I slipped the books into my library bag and huffed out without saying thank you.
“I hope your sister’s better soon,” she taunted.
I pretended not to hear. “Now what?” I asked as soon as we got outside. “How are we going to talk to Shortie if we don’t know how to do it?”
“Chrissy reckons she knows what to do. She can show us.”
I doubted Chrissy knew as much as she let on, but I agreed she’d have to do.
“Hey Jenny, look what I got for you.” Tom reached into the front of his shorts and pulled out a book.
I looked at the front cover and laughed. He’d pinched The Complete Book of Witchcraft that I’d been looking through. It had heaps of stuff in it about how to be a witch. Not that I wanted to be a witch or anything, mind you; I just wanted to learn about them, that’s all.
Impressed with my ill-gotten gift, I flipped through the pages to have a better look. “This is unreal. Thanks.”
“Serves her right for being such a stuck up bitch.”
I’d already forgotten about Miss Uppity. I couldn’t wait to get home and start reading my new book.
Chapter 55
Thursday, 4 January 1980
“Quick, Brian’s out the back and Mum’s in the laundry.” I shuffled Chrissy through the house and into my bedroom before anyone saw us. She put the pillowcase she carried on my bed while I shut the door.
“Mum will never notice it’s gone,” Chrissy said, tipping the pillowcase upside down. “She hasn’t used it since the last time with Uncle Pat.”
I think what she meant to say was that her mum hasn’t used it since that time with Uncle Pat, because it didn’t make sense to say that someone hasn’t used something since the last time. How else does it get to be the last time? I didn’t bother correcting her though. The kids in my class already think I’m square because I always get straight A’s on my report card, so I try not to point things out like Chrissy’s poor grammar. It only reinforces what they say about me if I do.
&nb
sp; I picked up the box and studied the lid. I’d never seen a real Ouija board before. I’d seen one on the television, so I had some idea of what they looked like, but I’d never seen one up close. I always thought it was spelled Weeja not Ouija, but I didn’t tell Chrissy that. The picture on the front showed two people with their fingers resting on a triangular plastic thing.
“That’s called a planchette,” Chrissy informed me, pointing to the triangle. “It says so in the instructions. It moves around all by itself if there’s a spirit in the room.”
“If it moves by itself, how come they have their hands on it then?”
“I dunno. I’m not an expert you know.”
That was news to me. She certainly sounded like one on New Year’s Eve. “Can more than two people play?”
“Yes. But they don’t all have to touch the planchette. They can if they want to, but only three or four will fit, so the others can just watch. Besides, someone has to write down the answers or you forget what they are.”
The whole thing sounded bogus to me, but I couldn’t wait to try it anyway. Only one more sleep to go and I’ll be able to. Dad doesn’t have to start work until late tomorrow, so he agreed to set the tent up early in the morning so we can play in it all day. If it’s not too hot, that is. Dad said there’s been a fire ban on all week, which means there’ll probably be one on tomorrow too, so we won’t be able to have a campfire. Even if there isn’t a fire ban tomorrow, I doubted Dad would let me have a campfire anyway. He’ll say we’re too young or it’s too dangerous, or some such Boy Scout thing. It doesn’t matter that much anyway. Even though I love fires, I’m happy to have a campout without one. I’m just happy to have a campout full stop.
So far, I’ve got four candles and a box of matches stashed in the cubby house. Two of the candles I made with my candle-making kit and the other two I nicked from the laundry cupboard where Mum keeps them in case of a blackout. The matches came from the bowl on the wall unit. I took them from the bottom, so Mum would never know they were gone. I even got some old plates to stick the candles onto. They’re still under my bed with the library books. I planned to take them down to the cubby as soon as Tom arrived.
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