Path to the Night Sea

by Gilmore, Alicia;

  Inside these walls she was his baby, his girl, his woman. Her body was heavier now and foreign. It didn’t match that of the little girl she’d been in those few black and white photos. It didn’t match the body of the little girl who had gone to kindergarten, who’d played with her best friend Maisie, or who’d gone to feed the dogs one long-ago afternoon. She wasn’t quite sure who or what she was anymore. She was only sure of one thing. She’d always be Daddy’s girl. He’d told her so.

  Checking that Daddy’s few personal belongings were in their proper places on his dresser, his little alarm clock by the bed, she turned and stepped back to the door, pulling it shut. Almost directly opposite was the entrance to the lounge room. There were sliding doors and, unless it was winter, Daddy kept them open. Ellie ran her eyes over the furniture. There were his armchair, the sofa, the rug on the floor in front of the heater. The mantelpiece with the clock that only Daddy could wind and, on the shelf below, the radio which she played ever so softly and secretly when Daddy was out. Using her sleeve, she rubbed her fingerprints off the globe and made sure that all the countries were back where they should be. New Zealand had to point towards the carpet. Daddy would know if the globe had been moved. She wasn’t supposed to touch his things.

  Everything in its proper place, she continued down the hallway. From here it was nine steps to the bathroom. Ellie stood in front of the towels and checked that they hung evenly. She nudged the bath mat with her foot, stepped back, and nudged it again. Daddy would be happy.

  She crossed to the laundry. Her gaze moved from the washing machine, small sink, and open cupboard on one side, across laden airing racks, to the dusty, closed blinds covering the windows. The room itself was heavy with damp clothes and dulled light. There was an ironing board propped against the wall and a wicker basket beside it at the far wall. Breathing in the clammy air, Ellie took a step towards the blinds. If only Daddy would let her open a window, their clothes wouldn’t take so long to dry. If only some light, real sunlight, could enter. The temptation to peek beneath one of the blinds was almost physical. She realised she was scratching, picking at the skin on the back of her hand, and she clenched her fists. She shouldn’t touch. Not herself and never the blinds. She couldn’t even dust them. He would know. He always knew.

  Daddy had taken swathes of brown paper and covered every windowpane years before. There was no way for her to look out, nor for anyone to look in. Daddy checked the paper daily. He would know if it was torn. The cats had scratched at it, more than once, and had earned her a beating each time. The papered glass served an additional function. It prevented her from catching a glimpse of her reflection, whether by accident or design. She wasn’t to look. She was not worth looking at.

  She longed to move one of the blinds, to tear a hole in that paper and peek into the backyard, but that was forbidden. She’d heard strange noises from the house next door, a tinkling, singing sound that drove her father mad when he was home. “Bloody wind chimes,” he called them, but Ellie thought they sounded beautiful. She wanted to know what they looked like. She wanted one for herself, another secret longing. It was no use though, wishing for things that could never happen. Daddy said what happened; Daddy made things happen. Not Ellie. She shook her head.

  One night she had pleaded with her father to let her out, to let her see the sky, the moon, to breathe fresh air. He had mocked her whispery pleas.

  ‘Oh, please, Daddy, please.’ He’d attempted a breathy falsetto and it had repulsed her. His eyes had flared. ‘You want to go outside? After all I’ve done for you? Well, get out then, but you’ll get nothing from me.’ He’d grabbed her by her shirt and yanked it over her head. She had heard the sound of a button pop and roll across the floor. ‘Not the clothes I’ve given you, nothing.’

  She had fought him, ‘No, no, stop… I didn’t mean… no.’

  He had slapped her. ‘I’ve given you everything, and you want to leave me?’ He had raged as he had ripped and torn her clothing from her body, leaving her naked and shivering before him. He had looked her up and down with a sneer. ‘So leave then.’ He had half-carried, half-dragged her towards the back door, opened it, and pushed her out into the night. Ellie had crouched to the ground, quivering and terrified.

  ‘You want to be outside?’ he had hissed. ‘You think you can survive without me? Go on then, fuck off.’ He had kicked her, and unbalanced as she was, she had tumbled off the cold cement path and onto the damp grass. The short spikes tickled her skin; the shock of the night air caused her flesh to erupt with goose bumps. The dark, open space was overwhelming.

  ‘Daddy, please…’

  ‘Daddy, please,’ he’d mocked. He had switched off the hallway light. His shadowy form loomed before her. ‘You wanted to be outside. Go on then. Go.’

  Ellie had trembled and crawled back towards him. Bindies pricked her hands and knees. Daddy let the screen door swing shut as he slammed the wooden back door. Ellie cried out. Still on her knees, she had run her fingers across the screen door, trying to find something to cling to. She had wrenched it open and laid her palms against the wooden door, pushing against it. It didn’t budge. No, no, no. She couldn’t be outside like this, naked and exposed. Molten tears had choked her as she curled her body into a ball to hide her shame.

  ‘Daddy, please.’

  He had opened the door and looked down upon her. It had only occurred to her much later that he hadn’t locked it. He hadn’t left her. He hadn’t walked away from the door. From her.

  ‘Please,’ she had whispered.

  ‘Please, what?’

  ‘Please, Daddy.’

  ‘Say, Let me in, Daddy. Say, I can’t live without you.’

  ‘Let me in, Daddy. I can’t live without you.’

  ‘Say Pretty please.’

  ‘Pretty please.’

  He had pretended to consider it for agonising, indeterminable seconds before he had sniggered, opened his legs wide, and gestured. ‘Look who’s crawling back.’

  She had crawled through his legs and, as she had passed beneath him, he had stuck his fingers in her, propelling her forwards. Ellie had whimpered as tears and snot ran down her face.

  ‘You’re nothing without me, girl; you belong to me, in here. And don’t you ever forget it.’

  She hadn’t.

  A movement caught her eye, a drop into a glint of water on the floor and Ellie realised where she was, when she was. A puddle had formed directly below the dense fabric of her father’s pants, the legs darker at the hems where moisture gathered. The towel, where was her old towel? She grabbed it and fell to her knees, frantically trying to mop up the water. If Daddy came home and saw this, he would be angry. He would know she hadn’t been careful; she hadn’t taken care of his house.

  Ellie heard footsteps, the sound of the screen door creaking open, then the sound of a key in the back door. She gave the floor a last wipe and tried to stand, but knocked the rack with her head. It swayed and started to topple. Letting go of the towel, she stretched out her hands, flailing at the sodden clothing that slapped across her face. She heard the door open and straightened, trembling hands grasping wet fabric. Ellie turned towards the doorway. It seemed to shimmer and widen as she pictured her father in the short corridor between the back door and the entrance to the laundry.

  She listened to the sounds that heralded his arrival, the closing and locking of the wooden door, followed by the sounds of his taking off his shoes and dropping them to the floor. A pause. She knew he was lining them up. His shoes were never as filthy as his work boots had been but habits, like rules, were not made to be broken. Shoes went by the back door. Slippers were worn indoors.

  Ellie hastily tried to rebalance the airing rack and stiffened as a chronic wheeze and stale tobacco scent permeated the air, announcing her father’s approaching presence. Ellie lowered her gaze as his feet, encased in thin black socks and checked slippers
, appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Well, what are you doing just standing around?’

  Ellie made no movement. Her eyes were fixed upon those slippers.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Nothing.’ The word was spoken in a barely audible whisper.

  He grunted. ‘What’s that towel doing on the floor?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Pick it up. Jesus, do I have to tell you every little thing?’ She nodded as she bent to the floor. When she stood again, he had gone. Ellie exhaled. Daddy was home.

  

  Arthur walked into the kitchen. She had gotten his cup and saucer out. That was good. She was prepared. She hadn’t been lazy. He had trained her well.

  He had not wanted a lazy child. He hadn’t wanted her to sit around all day, not when there were chores to be done, a house to be kept in order. She had to earn her keep. And it had cost him a lot to keep her—wasn’t that the truth. The God’s honest truth, he smirked. Who had said that? Jack’s God-fearing, preaching mother.

  Jack. His mate, his first and only best friend, the one he had longed to impress a lifetime ago. He could still picture Jack, aged fifteen, a tall boy with quick eyes and quicker hands. Jack’s mother had been their disagreeable Sunday school teacher, a tall, overbearing woman with wiry hair that had probably been that particular shade of pallid grey her entire life. That stern imposing figure could never have been scrunched into the form of a child. He smiled. He and Jack had taken it in turns to steal from the collection plate, even as they had veered between fearing the wrath of God and the evil eye of Jack’s mother. Those church takings had funded many Sunday afternoon trips to the cinema, the occasional ice cream, or hand-rolled cigarettes.

  God, that church. Arthur could still remember those interminable family Sunday mornings when he was forced to endure the droning minister and his sermons intoning the books of Genesis, the Apostles, Revelations, and the Book of Job. Job had interested him at least. Suffering and punishment. Retribution. Arthur figured he had a fair bit in common with Job, Arthur, too, had had more than his fair share of suffering. Yet, with all of the trials that God and Satan had put Job through, Arthur was convinced that none of Job’s daughters would have looked anything like Ellie. Mangled and mangy like her flea-ridden cat. Job had been spared that shame.

  ‘Daddy?’

  He started at Ellie’s voice. He hadn’t heard her enter the room. ‘What?’ He forced himself not to wince. She was looking straight at him. His steely gaze settled upon her and she bowed her head. Her hair was loosely captured at the nape of her neck, but the small elastic band she had looped around it couldn’t contain all of the wild bronze strands that descended over her flecked top. She had inherited her mother’s hair. It was what had attracted him to the woman in the first place. He stepped closer to his daughter. From her good side, if her head was turned far enough, her features gave the illusion of being strong and straight, as if a sculptor had breathed life into marble. But from the other side…

  ‘What?’

  ‘I…I was, um, was wondering if you wanted your tea, um, now?’

  She spoke so softly he could barely hear her. The timidity in her tone simultaneously pleased and irritated him. He coughed and abruptly turned away from her. ‘Not yet, it’s not time.’

  He headed towards his bedroom and swore as he trod in a sticky, congealing mess.

  ‘Ellie! Bloody cat’s been sick again.’ He swore again, storming back into the kitchen, one slipper in hand. He thrust it at her. ‘Clean up after the fucking thing. Now!’

  ‘Yes, Daddy.’ She mouthed the words at him, her voice lost in his anger. It wasn’t Perce’s fault. Don’t yell and scare my boy, she wanted to say, but never would.

  Arthur glared at her unmoving form. ‘What are you waiting for? Fucking move.’ She slunk in the direction of his bedroom. Dumb bitch. He had to tell her every little thing. Well, now she could bloody well clean it up. He spied the cat lurking around the laundry.

  ‘Out.’ He chased it towards the back door, aiming his foot at the cat. It was too quick for him. ‘Bastard,’ he muttered as he unlocked and opened the door. It took off into the yard before he could make contact. Arthur kicked off the remaining slipper and thrust his feet into his shoes. He stepped outside and pulled the wooden back door closed behind him.

  The scurfy exterior walls of the house flaked off in desiccated sheets. He looked at his house in disgust. It was as if the long, disappointed years and ill humour had permeated every aspect of his life—his body, his spirit, and his home. He’d always thought he’d have more. Be more. Arthur swiped a lank strand of hair off his face, another one of those greasy tufts that lingered stubbornly in thinning patches above his large ears. Time had wrought unwelcome changes to his body. He had watched his gradual decay in the small shaving mirror he kept locked in the drawer in his room, away from Ellie’s eyes. He had spared her the knowledge of her reflection. His rules had saved her from that. A mercy she had never appreciated.

  Arthur turned and surveyed the yard before him, his fingers strumming the edge of the screen door. Weeds poked through the shoddy garden bed that ran along the left side of the backyard, the side that led to the dogs’ enclosure. Old bricks were haphazardly stacked against the tidal flat of dirt. Mint spread its way with creeping intent to possess this patch of soil and the next. The back yard was ringed by trees and overgrowth on two sides where his allotment met the bush. His small work shed was in direct view, situated in the corner where the back fence adjoined the fence that separated his place from the only neighbours. A vine invaded from their yard. He had encouraged it, just as he had allowed the trees and plants to tower over the fence line and the backyard to look unkempt. Arthur had had to fight his instinct to cut it all back and regain order because the scrub provided such good cover. The banksias and other native trees that thrived in these coastal conditions did more than protect the house from the fury of the south-easterlies that roared up the coast; they prevented any unwelcome eyes spying into his home. Along the fence line near the neighbour’s yard was a strip of spiky asparagus ferns, the barbed leaves ensuring no one, especially that blasted neighbour kid, would get too close. The old Tilletts next door had moved into some kind of retirement village and left their place to their son, who kept it as a weekender for himself, his wife, and their brat. Arthur doubted that Tillett and his wife had even the faintest suspicion he didn’t live alone, but he worried about that kid. He had caught the boy peering through the fence palings one day, asking if he could come in and get his ball. Arthur had located the offending object and had thrown it back, snarling at the boy never to set foot on his property.

  ‘What’s your cat’s name?’ the insolent sod had dared ask.

  ‘Haven’t got one,’ Arthur retorted.

  ‘I’ve seen it; it’s got, like, dark patches.’

  ‘It’s a stray.’

  ‘You let it in your house.’

  Arthur glared. How did the little turd know that? ‘Yeah, well, it kills stuff. Rats, mice…small children.’

  ‘So, what’s its name?’

  ‘None of your business.’ Arthur didn’t like this kid and didn’t like that he knew about Ellie’s damned cat. What else did he know?

  He had been extra careful after that. Made sure Ellie was following the rules. Even knocked on the bloody neighbours’ door and told them to mind their son, make sure he didn’t trespass on his land. Told them he liked his privacy. Rebuffed their offer for dinner or a cuppa. Gave a brusque, ‘Good,’ when the father said he would keep an eye on his boy. They’d left him alone then.

  Occasionally he’d find another ball, once a bloody Frisbee, which had strayed into his yard. He’d binned them. The brat did it on purpose; of that, Arthur was convinced. He was sure the kid had been in the yard again—sometimes the garden looked a little trampled—but he just couldn’t catch him.

  He looked around the yard o
nce more and sighed. He eyed the vine and followed its path to a low branch on one of the trees. He didn’t care what grew, as long as it did. The lack of order infuriated him, but it was a necessity. He was tired. No one would ever understand how difficult, how exhausting it had been keeping guard, keeping her in, being vigilant all of these years. How much it had cost him. Anyhow, there was no one to tell.

  A bird trilled, punctuating the sound of the sea in the distance. The ocean never settled. It was a constant presence whether you could see it or not. The toiling waves were the sound of the world breathing; it was the dark, phlegmy lungs of the other old miners, each raspy breath. It had taken retirement for him to discover he truly liked living in Coalcliff. His walks down to the beach—well, the wooden bench that overlooked the beach—gave him a sense of routine. His history was here—in the earth, in the bush, in that unstoppable ocean.

  He could have moved years ago, after Miriam had gone and his father had died. His mother had talked briefly of leaving. Going further south to Port Kembla or Kiama where her family was from, or even north to Sydney. But they’d stuck to their part of the south coast, close to the rumbling Pacific with her surges and sprays, entwined with the escarpment, the sky, the wind, the sea, and the men working underground. This was his home.

  The clothesline stood empty before him. He supposed he could bring all of the washing outside so it would dry more quickly and stop the dank smell that pervaded the house, but that was women’s work. He wanted no piece of it. His mother had done it when she had been here. He had thought about letting Ellie into the yard to peg it out, if no one was watching, and never on weekends when the neighbours might be home, but she couldn’t be trusted. Besides, there wasn’t as much as there used to be, not since he had left the colliery and no longer needed to wash away the coal-black traces that had worked their way into every thread and pore. Occasionally he would hang out the sheets so the bloody things would dry, but otherwise, he left it to Ellie. She needed to be kept busy.