She tries the guitar, snatches it from the corner and perches on the arm of the couch, picks out a few notes. But the musical sounds jar and clang inside her, and her mother’s face rises suddenly, vivid and clear: her smile, the jingle of her eyes, the dimple high on her cheek—Abby had forgotten it. Her heart lurches sickly. Beneath the skin of these memories lies everything she’s trying to suppress. One image will lead eventually to another and then to the last, the final show. She lays the guitar aside, claws at her throat, leaps up from the couch, tries to find some other distraction.
Outside in the cold night, she stares into the starry sky, watching the vapour puffs of her breath hanging in the frosty air. If only she could fly. It would be so good to scoop the night beneath her wings and race across the universe, fleeing her mind. She is so engorged with fearful energy. What can she do to calm down?
She makes a hot chocolate, watches the mug spin around in the microwave, the milk frothing and rising and spilling over the rim and spreading on the turntable. She doesn’t attempt to stop it, opens the door onto the milky mess when the timer dings, wipes the bottom of the mug and sits on the doorstep.
Possums cuss and scuffle in the garden. They sound angry. Perhaps that’s the best way to deal with grief: to yell and hit and scream until it has gone. But she tried that when she was young and it didn’t work. This is what she is left with—this bruised shell, still full of mourning.
When finally she goes to bed she turns on her mobile out of habit, deletes Cameron’s messages and then switches off the light. Sleep eludes her. She lies rigid, embedded in a kaleidoscope of images she hasn’t revisited in years. She’s afraid to close her eyes, terrified of slipping into unconsciousness. Death is waiting for her there. A decade ago, she lost her mother, and since then all the silly superficial bandaids she’s applied to heal herself have done nothing to mend the wounds. She’s still damaged, a frightened little girl hiding in a woman’s body.
She coils beneath the doona, shivering, her entire body gripped by cramps of angst. She is cold, so cold. There is iciness in her chest. Something frozen in there. It holds her in its grip.
Shaking convulsively, she pushes back the doona and clambers from the bed like a stiff old woman. She makes her way to the bathroom, snaps on the light and spins the taps in the shower. With one hand gripping the towel rail, she fumbles her clothes off, waits while the water warms up. Then she steps beneath the steaming flow. She can’t bear the heat. Pain contracts her extremities, forces a cry from her tight cold lips.
She twirls the cold tap till she can tolerate the temperature, then gradually eases it again as her body adjusts to the warmth. But thawing out doesn’t help. The heat melts something that was holding her strong. And now suddenly, tears come gushing. Visceral sobs that rack her slender frame. She hunches beneath the blast of water, weeping.
Something makes her look up at her agonised reflection in the mirror. Water streaming over her face, her hair a wet clod draped over her shoulders, her mouth an ugly gash of grief. She glances away, can’t bear to witness her disintegration.
On the floor of the shower she sees one of Cameron’s disposable razors. Usually he uses an electric razor, but one time he stayed over without his toiletries, needed to shave before work the next morning, bought a packet of razors and some shaving cream at the local supermarket. She focuses on the razor, a clear, horrible steadiness taking hold of her mind. She bends and reaches for the razor, contemplates the sharp silver blade.
In the mirror she sees herself again—the grim intent in her eyes. The shaking has stopped, but there is a new destructive clench in her stomach. She needs to punish herself. To hurt herself in some lasting way that will remind her of her weakness, and distract herself from the turmoil of the past that she simply cannot evict from her brain.
She grabs the bottle of shampoo from the rack hanging off the cold tap, squirts out a handful, and lathers it through her hair till she is foaming and white. Then she lifts the razor and starts hacking, scraping her hair off at the roots in great curly hanks. She flicks the sodden lumps on the tiles, the shaggy mane of red-brown locks piling around her feet.
In the mirror, she sees her new ugly self emerge and she weeps at the awfulness of it. Bare, bald, scraped away, exposed. She has nowhere to hide from herself now. This is who she is.
When the job is done, she wipes the loose strands of hair from her body, turns off the taps and steps out of the shower, dries herself with her scratchy old towel. Then she fingers the tears from her cheeks, and the weeping stops.
Wafting like a ghost, she goes to her room, finds her pyjamas, tugs them on. She scuffs a hand through her drawer till she finds a beanie and snugs it on over her ears. Then she returns to the bathroom, swipes up the thick handfuls of hair from the floor of the shower and carries it all, dripping, to the kitchen, slops it into the bin.
She is drained now, empty. Something important has been shed with the hair. A part of herself she can’t bring back. Numb, she trails to her bedroom, inserts herself under the doona, collapses into sleep.
Morning, and her mobile phone is ringing. It is on her bedside table, but she stays curled beneath the doona and ignores it. She hears the beep of message bank and soon after, the phone rings again. She doesn’t move. She’s warm and safe beneath her layer of feathers, the beanie pulled down hard over her ears.
The phone rings four times, and each time there is a message. She will not answer it, cannot answer it. Then a thought arrives. If she doesn’t take the call, Cameron may come over. He may arrive uninvited on her doorstep and expect to talk. He may decide to take care of her.
When the phone rings again, she reaches an arm from her downy cave and pulls the phone under the covers. ‘Hello?’
It’s Cameron, just as she thought. ‘Where are you?’ he asks. ‘You sound like you’re under water.’
‘I’m in bed.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘I was asleep.’
‘Sorry.’
She says nothing. She is empty, doesn’t want to encourage him, cannot face the concept of kindness or sympathy.
‘Can I come and make you some breakfast?’
He is trying to sound chirpy, but she can’t stomach it. ‘I’m not hungry.’
‘How about I just come and sit with you, in case you need me.’
‘Please don’t. I need to be alone.’ She’s weary, can’t fathom how she would cope with his presence.
‘Last night must have been awful.’
She doesn’t want to have this conversation, but it seems that she must. ‘No, it was very professional. It was just me not coping.’
‘No-one would have coped with that.’ His sympathy washes down the line.
‘I thought I’d do better.’
‘I’m sure you did the best you could. Let me come around. You shouldn’t be alone.’
She sighs, immensely tired. ‘No. Please, don’t. I just need to sleep.’
Silence again. Maybe he is getting the message. ‘How about I take you out to your valley,’ he suggests. ‘See some healthy kangaroos. It’ll be good for you.’
She closes her eyes, feels tears rising and chokes them down. ‘That’s a kind thought. But if I go to the valley, I’ll go alone. It’s better that way.’
Another silence follows. Then, ‘Promise you’ll ring if you need me.’
‘I will.’
She hangs up, flicks the phone onto the bedside table, lies back listlessly, still hiding in the soothing dark beneath the doona. But Cameron has planted a seed. She pushes the covers aside and sits on the edge of the bed, dizzy, washed out. Her head is itchy beneath the beanie. She tugs it off, runs a tentative hand over the unfamiliar terrain of her scalp. It’s bristly, prickly, surreal. She weeps. What has she done to herself?
She grasps the phone again, rings Daphne’s number. Pam answers.
‘Pam. It’s Abby.’
‘Abby. You sound strange.’
She feels a crazy la
ugh bubbling up and stifles it. ‘No. Just tired. Can I speak to Daphne?’
‘Just a minute.’
Abby waits. In her mind, she sees Daphne sitting in her armchair, nodding sleepily over a crossword. She has only been home from hospital for a week, and she’s weary. Abby has a proposition to make, but it may be too soon. Better she suggest it to Daphne than Pam, otherwise it would be a flat no.
She hears Daphne clear her throat as she takes the phone. ‘Abby, dear.’
At the sound of Daphne’s voice, Abby crumbles and is unable to speak. Tears blur her vision and knots jam her throat.
‘Abby? Are you there?’
‘Yes, I’m here.’
‘Are you all right, dear?’
‘Not really.’
‘What is it?’
‘I need to go out to the valley. Do you think Pam would let you come with me? Are you up to it?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘You’re not really up to it, are you?’
‘No, but I’m coming.’
‘I need some company.’
‘I know how it is, dear. I’ll be waiting.’
40
They drive out to the valley in silence. It is grey winter, cold, the mountains sing with the tumble of the wind. Abby unlocks the gate and drives down to the old homestead. It’s a weekday. Nobody about. She parks the car in front of the building, facing up-valley.
They stay in the car and listen to the air butting against the windows, whistling through the grasses, moaning around the eaves of the homestead. Abby is so desperately tired. She is burdened, has been for a decade, is done with toting the load. She looks to Daphne who is fixed somewhere in the distance, riding on a memory.
Now Abby feels the sadness rising again. She feels the inevitability of her own story surfacing, unleashed by the cull, her mother’s face looking back at her from all those mangled kangaroos.
She turns to look at Daphne, glances away again, words organising themselves in her head, images rearranging, everything preparing itself to come forth. Now is the time to talk, and Daphne is the one she must share it with. Daphne is here for her. Daphne counts. Daphne, like her Gran, will know how to hold her up when her knees fold and she breaks.
The girl had walked home from school that afternoon. She was walking home because she had missed the bus—too busy talking with a friend after the home-time bell. It was hot and humid and she was sweaty, her clothes sticking to her skin like glue. Over the purple mountains, clouds were clustering in dense fluffy thunderheads, promising a cool change that seemed it would never come. Heat lay like a blanket over the paddocks, hazy warmth beating from the earth like an engorged pulse.
She plodded along the footpath, feet cooking in her shoes. At the bridge she stopped to watch a handful of kids leaping from the railing into the water. Their yells and hoots rang between the pylons: eerie echoes beneath the road. Her hot, tacky body wanted to join them, to feel the cool water drawing her in. But she didn’t have her bathers, so she trudged across the bridge, the boards clacking and rattling as a car passed by. Then she took the turn onto the side road, headed for the farm.
It was a long walk, but she didn’t mind. She liked the feel of the heat shimmering up from the tarmac, the mirages that painted themselves ahead in the distance, stories and landscapes forming and dissolving as she walked. Her school bag was heavy with uneaten lunch; her appetite was never good when it was hot. She stopped to haul out her sandwiches and throw them over the fence for some lucky cow or a hungry raven that happened upon them among the tall green grass which grew thick along the roadside.
She came to the driveway and wandered its length, ambling beneath the cool shade of the pines, their scent tangy in the turgid air. She was sluggishly tired and had walked more than halfway before she realised she’d forgotten to check the mailbox—an old milk urn painted silver and hammered onto a post at the gate. But she didn’t turn back—hopefully her father would stop on his way home tonight.
The house nestled beneath the old oak trees which spread their branches over the roof like protective arms. Passing the sheds, she crossed the last open space of baking sunlight before reaching the door where she kicked off her shoes, not bothering to pair them on the rack. The shade of the veranda enveloped her, tracing shadows on her skin. She opened the door and slid thankfully inside.
It was quiet in the house, which was normal when her mother was navigating a slump. She tiptoed down the hall to her mother’s bedroom. Usually she would creep in and plant a small kiss on her mother’s marble cheek, pausing to watch the slow rise and fall of her chest as she lay inert on the bed. Today the room was empty.
She moved through the house, peering into each room, drawing consecutive blanks. Her mother was not in the kitchen—the table was still cluttered with this morning’s used breakfast bowls, flies crawling in the congealed clots of Weet-bix. The lounge room was empty too; sometimes her mother would sit in a chair by the window, watching the oak trees wave their arms. But she was not in the lounge room, not in the bathroom, not in Matt’s bedroom, and she was not in the laundry, where dirty clothes lay in limp neglected piles.
When she had determined her mother was not in the house, she drifted outside, stopping to watch the cows sheltering beneath the gum trees along the house-paddock fence. They were dozy and listless, their tails switching flies from their backs. She crossed the driveway to the shed, wincing as her soft sweaty feet contacted the sharp gravel. Beneath the tin roof, heat swelled and simmered. She smelled the rich oiliness of the tractor, the aroma of hot hay. Swallows scattered under the beams, circling and chattering in the dim light. Her mother was not in the shed.
She wandered down to the stables, empty now that her mother had stopped riding and the horses had been turned out for summer, until her mother called them in again, offering pieces of cut apple in the palm of her hand. Down in the horse paddock, the horses were standing in the shade, and her mother was not with them, which was no surprise.
The only remaining place was the chook shed, which was not somewhere her mother visited often. Earlier in the year a fox had invaded and slaughtered the chickens. It was murder, not even for hunger—the fox had left torn and decapitated carcasses, not even bothering to eat any of the meat. The girl and her father had buried the mangled birds down below the compost heap. Then her father had purchased from a neighbour new pullets, which had grown into fine white Leghorns. Since then her mother had refused to go down there, leaving the chooks to someone else to tend.
Now she reached the shed. The door was ajar and it was then that she noticed the chickens were out, grasping the opportunity to scratch in the garden at the back of the house, and scattering the mulch. She grabbed the handle and swung the door wide.
That was when her heart emptied and her mind stopped, her future finished.
She remembers the shaft of light cast through the open door, the drone of flies circling the shed, the rusty metallic smell of blood. On the floor, lay her mother, half-sitting, eyes starring glassily, a round black hole burnt smooth in her white forehead. Across her lap, the rifle lay fallen from her hands, and she wore an expression of surprise mingled with absence.
The girl stood there, unmoving, watching the flies crawling their way in and out of her mother’s eyes and nose, the hole in her head. She heard the startled clucking of a chicken somewhere outside. Then her mind closed like a door slammed shut and silence descended—utter mental silence, as unseeing and unhearing as her mother, lying slumped and lifeless on the straw.
When the telling is done, Abby hovers in an empty space somewhere between the present and the past. She is surprised to find she doesn’t need anything from Daphne. The old lady’s presence is enough, the bearing of witness. She feels an odd opening in her chest, a parting, like a clearing of clouds after a storm. There is no beam of sunlight, but there is a sense of loosening, a change in the air, a lessening of the load.
The images haven’t altered and the story is the same—
still horrible, still shocking. But now the words are out and the facts are known. They have been announced, relinquished from the vault. The kangaroos triggered it, and because of them, the terrible thing is no longer a secret. Abby hopes that now the worst is revealed, perhaps she can start to let it go.
She meets her old friend’s gaze and sees tears shimmering in Daphne’s eyes, feels moisture on her own cheeks. Then she reaches for Daphne and they grip each other’s hands and hold tight. All the words have been said, and there is nothing more to say.
She leaves Daphne in the car and wanders, pensive and alone, up the valley. After last night’s traumas and this morning’s release, she needs to recuperate now, to take pause in the soothing presence of the mountains and the trees.
The wind has dropped and the valley is quiet and still. Up ahead, her kangaroos are grazing, their jaws grinding rhythmically. She’s neglected them these past weeks and they watch her with a new untrusting vigilance. Already they’ve partly forgotten her. That is their wildness. You can gain an edge of familiarity, but instinct is undeniable.
She sits in the dry grass and absorbs the fragrant air, the hollow echo of a currawong calling among the rocks. Despite her fatigue, she feels more settled than she has in months. She lies down in the grass and stares at the clouds, emptying herself out, trying to come to terms with the enormity of what has just passed: the handing on of her story to Daphne. It is something she’s never done before, opening herself up like this, and the feeling of exposure is unfamiliar, but at the same time it is liberating. Unraveled, she stretches out, arms behind her head, adjusting to the sensation of metamorphosis.
Eventually the breeze strengthens and cold starts to set in. She climbs to her feet and turns back towards the car where, hopefully, Daphne is napping.
It is then that she sees him, standing by a snow gum along the track. She falters, sudden weakness in her knees. He shouldn’t be here. She asked him not to come. Slowly she closes the distance to meet him, and he waits, awkward, his hands in his pockets, and she thinks of the first day she met him in the car park for an interview, and how much has happened since then.
The Grass Castle Page 32
