‘After all I did for you.’
‘I know, I know…’ Familiar feelings of guilt washed over her—guilt at failing him, guilt at her secret rise of anger at his words. He had, after all, done everything for her. He’d even come back to life for her. ‘I’ll fix you up now. I’ll take care of you.’ She waited for a reply but there was none. She dared to open her eyes and raise her head and the sheet was back on the bed, his body immobile beneath it. As if he had never spoken. She moaned. He had been here, really here… hadn’t he?
‘C’mon, girl.’ This time the chiding voice was hers. She had to dress him. ‘Clothes.’ The words were scarcely audible in the still room, and did nothing to make the silence bearable. Ellie struggled to dress her father in his regular clothes, fighting his unforgiving limbs before deciding on a pair of loose, worn flannelette pyjamas. He was in bed after all. She jerked the pants up, covering his legs and waist, before tightening the drawstring. She unbuttoned the pyjama top and lifted one lifeless arm towards her. Ellie had to bring herself close to him, to his face, as she strained to get his arm into the sleeve. She turned her head and her cheek touched cold flesh. A jolt ran through her and she let his torso drop back down onto the mattress. She positioned the pyjama top over him. It would have to do.
He looked small on the bed. His skin was mottled. Death had settled more heavily on him during the night, leaving him a cold mockery of the man he had been.
‘Done, Daddy. Dead and done and gone.’
He made no reply.
Ellie stood still. She could hear a bird calling outside and the surge of distant waves, but that was it. There were no sounds of people, no trains, no cars, no voices. She was sure she had heard the neighbours’ car pull in to their driveway last night, but she hadn’t heard any sound from them since. Perhaps she’d been wrong? She could be the only person in the entire world and everything would look and sound the same. The birds would still call and the waves would still sing their way in and out. It would be just her and Daddy forever.
‘C’mon, Ellie, can you play with me now?’
Maisie Jayne. Her very own best friend from the house next door. A couple of streets away was the main road where the trucks carted coal to the trains and where cars travelled up and down the coast. That traffic rarely stopped in Coalcliff. Those huge trucks would not be able to stop in time if a small child wandered onto the road, so Maisie’s parents encouraged their daughter to play in the backyard where the connecting fence met the Clements’. The girls had tried to convince their parents to build a gate between the two fences, but Arthur wasn’t keen.
‘If I’d had the money, I would have bought that block too. Stop people moving in so bloody close,’ he had muttered within their wall, but to Maisie’s father he had pretended to consider the idea before he had declared it too dangerous. ‘The dogs might get out.’ He had readily added a short run to their enclosure though, and then built the small wooden shed near the area where Maisie and Ellie squeezed their fingers through the palings.
‘That’ll keep the stickybeaks out.’
‘But she’s not a stickybeak; she’s my friend.’
‘Hush,’ Mummy had said.
‘Why can’t I see my friend?’
Daddy had never deigned to reply. Her father hadn’t wanted to be too close to the main road, nor did he want to be too close to the beach, despite both being almost unavoidable in the tiny town. He had sought the privacy that looking back towards the escarpment, those towering cliffs, offered. It was enough that in the gaps between the bush and the few houses, down the unsealed streets, there was the possibility of an ocean glimpse. Of a world beyond his own.
Ellie didn’t understand why Daddy wouldn’t let them have a gate, or just remove a paling or two, so the girls could share their yards. She had been friends with Maisie her whole life, throughout kindergarten and first class and trips to the beach. Maisie was a tumble of a girl, all bounce and bluster, ever ready to play and determined in her boisterous fashion that rules could be made and remade every day. Maisie let Ellie draw with her multi-coloured chalk along the Tilletts’ cement drive. Ellie’s pleasure at using her best friend’s new packet of twenty-four colours was tinged with jealousy. Daddy wouldn’t let her have coloured chalks. They were too messy for Arthur Clements’ household.
In school, Ellie drew the childish universe she shared with Maisie, proudly taking the images—depicted in multi-coloured squiggles and careful letters—home to show her parents.
‘What’s that meant to be then? What do they teach you at that place?’ Daddy scowled at her uneven letters. ‘I could teach you better than that. Better than that two-roomed joke of a school.’ Daddy never understood. He couldn’t see. Mummy did. After her father laughed and threw her pictures in the bin, Ellie had left her school work in her bag, not wanting to see it mocked and thrown away.
‘Eleanor, what’s all this?’ Mrs Burton, her teacher, was in the doorway of their classroom, making sure everyone had their equipment, when she noticed Ellie struggling to pull her pencil case out of her overcrowded bag. Ellie blushed. She loved Mrs Burton and didn’t want to get in trouble. Mrs Burton reached into Ellie’s bag and pulled out a couple of her crushed worksheets and drawings. ‘They’re all crumpled. You should take these home, pin them up.’
‘I… um… I wanted to keep them safe.’
‘They would be safer at home, surely? Maybe you could stick them on the fridge? I’m sure Mummy and Daddy would to love to see your hard work.’
Ellie shook her head. ‘No.’
‘What do you mean, no?’
‘Daddy doesn’t like mess and he says I’m messy and I’m not very good.’
Mrs Burton knelt down and straightened out one of the papers. She pointed to the bottom of the sheet and smiled. ‘Look, here where you wrote your name and spelled it all correctly, Eleanor. I think you are very good. When you started this year, you couldn’t write your name and now you can. I think the picture you drew of you and your Mummy is beautiful. I think you should be very proud.’
Ellie smiled.
‘How about I talk to Mummy or Daddy?’
‘No!’ Ellie’s smile faded.
‘Ellie?’ Mrs Burton touched her arm lightly. Ellie jerked her arm away.
‘No, Mrs Burton, please don’t talk to Daddy. Please. I’ll take them out of my bag.’
That afternoon, Ellie had tried to race to the gate to leave quickly, but she wasn’t fast enough. She hovered as Mrs Burton started speaking to her mother.
‘She’s done some wonderful work. Eleanor is learning so much; it would be lovely if you could go through her school bag with her regularly and see what she has done.’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Ellie looked up at her mother. Her mother was biting her lip in that way she did sometimes when Daddy was due home from work. As the other children and families said their farewells, Ellie wished she were walking away with them.
‘Ellie seemed worried about taking her work home, and about me talking to you or her father. Is everything all right at home?’
‘Yes, of course it is.’ Ellie’s mother grabbed Ellie’s hand and squeezed it. Ellie didn’t dare speak or move. She didn’t want Mummy to be upset with her. ‘Well, we have to go now. Thank you. Good bye.’ Her mother tugged on her hand and they walked off at a brisk pace, Ellie struggling to keep up despite the tightening pressure on her hand.
‘Ow.’
‘What? Oh, sorry.’ Her mother relaxed her grip, but didn’t let go of Ellie’s hand. When they were out of sight of the school, she stopped and looked down at her daughter. ‘What did you say to Mrs Burton?’
‘Nothing.’
‘What did you tell her about your father? About me?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Ellie!’ Her mother’s voice was sharp. Ellie felt afraid and she wasn’t sure why.
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‘She just saw my pictures and stuff in my bag and asked me why I hadn’t shown it to you or Daddy. That’s all.’
‘What did you tell her?’
‘Nothing.’ Ellie pulled her hand out of her mother’s grip.
‘Why didn’t you show me your work?’
‘I didn’t want Daddy to laugh and throw it away. I wanted to keep it safe.’
‘And you didn’t say anything about Daddy?’
‘No.’
Her mother looked worried. ‘You can’t tell anyone about Daddy, about what happens behind closed doors, remember? What happens at home is private.’
‘I don’t like him being angry,’ Ellie spoke softly. ‘I don’t like it when he yells, when he hits you.’
‘You can’t tell anyone, not Maisie, not Mrs Burton. No one, you understand? And you can’t tell Daddy that Mrs Burton was asking questions, okay?’
Ellie nodded. She understood. Some things were private. Secret.
‘When we get home, how about we find somewhere in your room for you to keep your work?’
‘Can I put it on the wall?’
‘We’ll have to ask Daddy.’
Ellie nodded again. ‘Can I post a picture to Maisie?’
‘Didn’t you just see her at school?’
‘She was away today.’
‘Okay,’ her mother said with a shrug, and took her daughter’s hand once more. ‘Let’s go home.’
When they reached the Tilletts’ driveway, Dolores stopped. ‘Didn’t you want to mail a picture to Maisie? Here’s her letterbox.’
‘Not this one. Our secret letterbox.’ Ellie smiled. Now it was her turn to tug on her mother’s hand. The sooner she got home and changed out of her uniform, the sooner she could play in the back yard and post her letter to Maisie. Behind Arthur’s shed, between its flimsy walls and the fence, there was a narrow passageway, the perfect size for a child. On Maisie’s side of the fence, a garden bed, a sanctuary of green. Ellie could crawl through the space on her side and make her way to the corner of the yards where, in one of the gaps between the palings, Ellie and Maisie had created their own secret letterbox out of an old tea canister Maisie’s mum had given them. If the lid was facing you, it was your turn for presents and deliveries.
‘No more food.’ That had been the rule established by Mummy when Maisie had posted thin slices of watermelon and Ellie had carried the canister inside to reveal a swarm of ants over leftover rind. Ellie wiggled and crawled through to their special letterbox. She rolled up one of her pictures and slipped it into the canister, wedging it carefully between the palings, the lid facing Maisie’s garden. If Maisie came out into the back yard, she would find it. She would know where to look.
When Ellie had first been admitted to hospital, Dolores had brought her pictures from Maisie and a giant, signed, handmade card from her classmates and Mrs Burton. Ellie was glad they all hadn’t forgotten her, but it was the pictures from Maisie she liked best of all. The nurses had pinned them up on the wall above her bed, so she could see them when she lay flat and tilted her head backwards. One of the pictures from Maisie had two smiling girls drawn hand in hand and the words “Get well soon” added in an adult print. The girls were drawn in a black felt-tipped pen, with two large, round heads with circular eyes, each with six eyelashes (Ellie counted them when she was bored) and egg-shaped pupils. The girls had bulging backwards js for their noses with two dots for the nostrils and large mouths filled to the brim with sharp, triangular teeth. Shark mouths in little-girl faces. Ellie could tell they were girls, for they wore short blocks for skirts and little bows above their spiral curls for hair. Right-angled, capital Ls made up the legs and feet. “I love Ellie” was written on the bottom of the page—written twice, once backwards and the other, the right way around. A little caterpillar floated in the sky above their heads, too impatient to wait until it grew wings and could fly. This many-legged beast featured more of those sharp, pointed teeth eager to bite. Something else that may have been a dog had been scribbled over at the bottom of the page, now appearing as a black, gormless blob. There were a couple of curved black lines hovering over the girls.
‘Look, Mummy, a rainbow.’ Ellie had pictured the rainbow dripping colour onto the earth below.
‘It looks like a cage,’ her mummy had shivered, and then spoken through an unnatural smile. ‘It’s lovely, Ellie.’
Ellie had nodded, the small gesture causing the taut stitches across her face to tighten. She had wanted to draw a picture back to Maisie but with her right hand, her writing hand, heavily bandaged and her left held captive by a fierce needle and drip, she couldn’t have held a pencil even if she’d tried. She imagined herself drawing with handfuls of brightly coloured crayons all her own and then posting her pictures to Maisie through the gap in the fence. When she went home, she would see Maisie again, play with her again, and everything would be the same. Just like it had been before. Soon. Soon, soon, soon.
Dolores had stayed at the hospital the first night and the next, and then she had gone home for a shower and a change of clothes. Arthur had come home and his dinner wasn’t ready. Again. She was useless. He had found her in Ellie’s bedroom, curled on the bed, her face buried in Ellie’s pillow. Dolores had leapt up when she saw him and straightened the bedcover. She said she’d been at the hospital all day.
‘You’re not a fucking doctor; what do you think you can do?’
‘She’s my daughter…’
‘She’s my daughter too; you don’t see me there every second.’
‘You have to go to work.’
‘Yes, I have to go to work, to put a roof over your head, to put clothes on your back, to put food on the fucking table.’
Dolores blanched. ‘I’m sorry; dinner’s going to be a little late. I was at the hospital…’
‘I know that.’ He advanced upon her.
‘And I thought that I could take in another nightie for Ellie to sleep in, and I, I guess time got away from me.’
‘Like dinner?’
‘What?’
‘Dinner got away from you.’
‘Yes.’
‘Like your daughter?’
Dolores stared at him, unable to move as he stepped closer. He thrust a finger in her chest, hard against her breastbone. She knew it would leave a bruise.
‘You let her out.’
‘I…’
‘You let her out. You let my little girl get attacked by the dogs.’
‘It wasn’t my fault. You can’t think that I…’ He slapped her and she held a hand to her face, sickened more by his words than the blow.
‘You’re a fucking disgrace as a mother.’
‘No!’
‘Fucking disgrace,’ he shoved her, hard, and she fell onto the bed. ‘Fucking useless wife. Can’t take care of a house, of your child, of your husband…’ He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her off the bed. He could see her for what she was—weak, pathetic. What kind of mother let her child out to be mauled by dogs?
‘Go make my fucking dinner.’
Blasted child. Going to feed the dogs her biscuits as if they were pampered pets, not hunting dogs. Working dogs. His dogs. Damned child.
Arthur went out to the shed. He didn’t want to be in the house with that woman. That bitch had let Ellie out. He slammed his hand down on the workbench. He could still picture it, still feel the horror of when he’d first seen his daughter’s bloodied, limp body, horror tinged with awe for the power of those magnificent beasts, their wild natures springing forth in a rapture of uncontrolled violence. But he’d been furious too when the dogs hadn’t immediately obeyed his orders. He’d thought he’d trained them better than that. He’d thought their lineage secure, but you never could tell. Blame the bitch.
He stretched his arm up to the shelf he’d created hanging from the roof. His hand wrapp
ed around a narrow wooden case. He eased it down gently and placed it on the bench. As he unhooked the clasps, he remembered Frederick, the dog breeder’s words: ‘Sired by Kingsley.’ Kingsley, his so-called champion hunter. Arthur scoffed. Frederick was a lying old fool.
‘More fool me for trusting him,’ he muttered, running his hands along his gun. He should threaten to sue Frederick. He’d asked him for money for Ellie’s medical bills, but the bloody breeder had refused to cough up. Said he’d kept control of his dogs. Never had a problem with ‘em.
‘I could give him a problem.’ Arthur lined up his eye with the sight and pictured Frederick in the sights. As his finger touched the trigger, there rose an image of the dogs, their trusting brown eyes as he’d shot them. He placed the gun back into the case.
The bills were mounting and he had no idea how he was going to afford them all. The doctors wanted to send Ellie to Sydney, to the Children’s Hospital, for some kind of reconstructive cosmetic hogwash. He was onto their game. Peddling more surgeries that he couldn’t afford. The insurance might cover some, but not all. Damned if he’d humiliate himself and ask for help; a man had some pride. Still, the shame hit deep. He wanted his daughter to have the best, but he couldn’t provide it. ‘Fucking useless.’
‘Dinner’s ready.’
He looked up. Dolores was standing at the back door, silhouetted against the light. She’d kept her figure. He liked that. He made eye contact with her and she backed away from the door. As he washed up, he heard her put the plates on the tabletop. He made sure the towels were aligned, then headed to the kitchen.
‘What’s this?’ He gestured to the plate.
‘I know it’s not much but…’
‘It looks like shit.’
‘Well, I just thought if we ate something quickly, then went back to the hospital…’
‘Visiting hours are over.’
‘But as her parents, as her mother, they’ll let me in.’
‘As a mother.’ He shook his head and took a mouthful of food. He could see Dolores at the other end of the table, fidgeting in that annoying way she had, licking her lips as if that would give her the courage to speak.
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