The Memories We Hide

by jodi Gibson

  He imagined himself showing three lovely lasses around the farm, watching them in awe of the beautiful sunsets and sunrises, getting spooked by the cows as they turned unexpectedly, and getting their hands dirty stringing fence lines. The problem with his vision was that every girl he imagined looked like Laura.

  The rain began to din on the verandah, gathering momentum until it had drowned out the sound of the pork sausages splattering in the pan. He shook his head. As much as he tried to deny it, Laura was his perfect girl. She always had been. Ever since she would come out to the farm with her mum when they were kids. Those days were clearly etched in Tom's mind as if they were yesterday. The days when the two of them would run down to the dam at the east side of the property and try and catch the tadpoles, or they would wander down to the river with the fishing rods, never catching anything but having a great time laughing and talking about nothing in particular. Other times they would just sit side by side on the tire swing that his dad had made for them. A large worn-out tractor tire secured by six ropes to a branch off one of the huge, strong peppercorn trees at the back of the house. They would sit and swing for hours.

  Being with Laura felt easy. They would laugh until their eyes leaked. Deep belly laughs, the sort that made you feel like there was nowhere else in the world you'd rather be. And for Tom, there wasn't. Even now. Even after what happened.

  Tom plated up his meal and sat down at the wooden table. Ryan. The emotions stirred in Tom’s gut. Memories of Laura always had to bring Ryan along for the ride, didn’t they? Years of great memories all quashed by one tumultuous year that threw all of them around like washing on a spin cycle. Except they didn’t come out clean and shiny. They all came out battered, bruised, and brokenhearted. Tom stabbed at his sausage, the anger bubbling once again as he thought of that night. What if things had turned out differently? A sliding doors moment. A split second. A different decision. Maybe everything could have been different.

  Tom sighed and pulled himself to his feet, his appetite quashed by the memories.

  He'd almost slipped. Almost caved into Laura's desperate eyes earlier that week when she’d found the newspaper clippings. He’d had the chance to tell her the truth. Oh, how free it would have felt being honest. To get the weight of it off his back like a ton of hay off the Ute. He imagined Laura’s face as he told her. Imagined it twisting with hurt, her molasses eyes breaking before him.

  There was no way.

  He couldn't risk her ever knowing the truth.

  Chapter 9

  Laura tapped her fingers on the arm of the lounge chair as she read another message from Luke. Again apologizing, saying he’d change, do whatever she wanted. Laura felt her resolve waver. Maybe she should give him another chance. After all, they did have some great times together. Maybe she’d be ready to move forward after her visit home, after getting the closure she needed. She tapped out a short message.

  You just need to give me some time.

  Her mind wandered for the umpteenth time to Ryan. Since finding that article, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to what had happened. If she only had ignored the shortbread tin and not let her curiosity get the better of her.

  She glanced out the window and noticed Mrs. Hatfield on her front porch, staring into the rain. She’d always been the town gossip. If you ever wanted to know anything, all you had to do was ask her. Maybe she knew something. In fact, you didn't even have to ask most of the time. She'd simply tell. There was a running joke around town when Laura was younger that if you wanted something to get out, tell Mrs. Hatfield.

  Buoyed by the thought, Laura jumped up and grabbed the umbrella leaning by the front door and crossed the road, giving Mrs. Hatfield a wave as she let herself into the front gate.

  Mrs. Hatfield was dressed in a blue floral dress with a pink cardigan buttoned up halfway. Her white hair was pulled up into a messy bun with wisps falling around her deeply lined face. Her eyes were rimmed by deep pockets, as if she hadn't slept in years. She was pulling the dead rosebuds off her much-loved rosebushes that lined her front porch, their thick stems twisted and black.

  ‘Hi, Mrs. Hatfield,’ Laura said as made her way up to the porch, lowering her umbrella and lifting the hood of her jacket from her head.

  The old lady looked up at her, brow furrowing for a moment before raising her eyebrows in recognition.

  ‘Oh, Laura! How lovely it is to see you, dear.’ Mrs. Hatfield's voice was almost as creaky and worn as her front gate.

  ‘I'm so sorry about your mum.’ She shook her head. ‘Too young. Too young.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Are you back for long?’

  ‘I'm not really sure yet,’ Laura answered, tucking her hair behind her ears.

  ‘It must be hard for you after all this time. With everything that happened.’ She paused, looking toward the railway line. ‘Anyway, that's all in the past.’

  ‘I actually wanted to ask you something about that.’

  ‘About what, dear?’

  ‘About Ryan.’

  Mrs. Hatfield frowned. ‘Ryan?’ She paused as if shuffling through old memories. ‘Oh, it was so long ago. I think things like that are better put to rest, don’t you? No use dredging it all up again now,’ she said, wiping her wet, wrinkled hands on her dress. ‘How’s this rain? Never ending. Just like in ’74. They’re saying if it doesn’t stop soon, the rivers’ll break. Don’t reckon that stupid levy bank they built will hold them back,’ she tutted. ‘Stupid councilors in their cushy offices thinking they know everything.’

  Laura nodded politely. ‘No, but Mrs. Hatfield, about Ryan. I found something. A newspaper article that mentioned they thought perhaps Ryan had been …,’ she chose her words carefully, ‘…well, maybe his death wasn’t an accident? I was wondering if you remembered hearing anything like that at the time.’

  Mrs. Hatfield pursed her lips and exhaled. ‘I try not to think about it. That poor boy. I don’t know anything more than anyone else,’ she said, shrugging and shifting her stance. ‘And even if I did, it's not my place to tell …’

  Laura hesitated. ‘What do you mean, not your place to tell?’

  ‘Not to worry, love. It’s all in the past. Best be off. Go on and get in out of the rain, or you’ll catch yourself a cold.’ And with that, Mrs. Hatfield hobbled toward her front door, her dress flapping in the breeze and slippers scraping along the ground.

  ‘Mrs. Hatfield?’ Laura urged. But it was too late. She disappeared inside and clicked the front door closed behind her.

  Laura popped up her umbrella. What did she mean it wasn’t her place to tell? She began down the porch steps when the motorcycle postman pulled up. ‘Would you mind, love? These’ll get soaked in here.’ He held up a couple of letters.

  ‘Sure.’ Laura walked out and grabbed Mrs. Hatfield’s mail.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said, motoring on in his yellow raincoat.

  Laura traipsed back up the porch, about to slip the letters under Mrs. Hatfield’s door before changing her mind. She knocked on the door and waited. Nothing. This time Laura rapped on the window. She cupped her hands over her face and peered through the lace curtain and saw a shadowy figure moving down the hallway.

  ‘Ah, Laura!’ Mrs. Hatfield said as she opened the door. It was as if she hadn’t seen Laura for days, not minutes. Maybe she was losing her marbles.

  ‘Sorry, Mrs. Hatfield. I didn’t want your mail to get ruined,’ Laura said, holding up the envelopes.

  ‘Oh, you’re a dear, aren’t you? Come in! Come in!’ she motioned, shuffling inside.

  Laura smiled to herself and stepped into the house and onto the threadbare carpet, the Turkish rug pattern faded to a dull red. She followed Mrs. Hatfield into the front living room, where she was greeted by a smell of old mothballs and dampness. She tried hard not to screw up her nose.

  ‘Sit,’ said Mrs. Hatfield, pointing to the wood-framed vintage green lounge suite. The dark varnished wooden arms and legs were chippe
d and discolored. It would have been an expensive piece back in its day.

  ‘Would you like a cuppa? Or a biscuit? I don't have much,’ Mrs. Hatfield continued as she shuffled into the adjacent kitchen. ‘Don't have many visitors nowadays.’

  ‘No, no. It's fine, really. I'm okay,’ Laura said as she heard cupboard doors being opened and tins clattering. Laura waited, gazing around the living room, every spare space taken up with dust-covered china ornaments of cats and miniature teacups. She noticed an old ginger cat on the adjacent lounge chair curled up in an orange ball of fur, oblivious to Laura’s presence.

  ‘Here we go!’ Mrs. Hatfield returned with a plate of Iced VoVo biscuits and sat them on the coffee table in front of Laura. ‘My favorite. Can't go past the old Iced VoVo!’ Mrs. Hatfield smiled, picking one off the plate. She slowly lowered herself into the corner chair across from Laura. Laura swore she heard the old lady’s bones creak as she sat down.

  Laura picked up a biscuit out of politeness and took a bite, trying to catch the coconut flakes in her cupped hand as she did.

  ‘Mrs. Hatfield,’ Laura began. ‘I know it was so long ago, but it’s just what you said before, about Ryan’s death. Do you know something? Something that maybe you thought wasn’t important back then but maybe, in hindsight, is now?’

  Mrs. Hatfield cocked her head to the side as if Laura had been speaking another language. Laura sighed and decided to start fresh.

  ‘Okay, so I was sorting through Mum’s things the other day and I found this newspaper article.’ Laura pulled the soft piece of news clipping out of her pocket carefully, so as not to rip it. She unfolded it and passed it across to Mrs. Hatfield.

  Mrs. Hatfield squinted her eyes and held the paper out at arm’s length, then scrambled for her glasses on the side table. ‘Eyesight's not what it used to be,’ she said, pushing the thick-rimmed glasses upon her nose. She squinted, furrowed her brow, and read.

  ‘What I don't understand,’ continued Laura, ‘is why they questioned it being an accident. It was like they thought someone might have …’

  Mrs. Hatfield tutted and pulled her glasses off, discarding them onto the arm of the chair. ‘Well, I s’pose that’s my fault.’

  Laura's breath caught in her throat.

  ‘It was me who pointed out the army material,’ she continued, shaking her head. ‘I just thought it strange, y'know? I'd seen that odd fellow a few times hanging around the track there, probably on his way back from the pub, I guess.’

  Laura leaned forward, hanging on every word but totally confused. ‘What odd fellow?’

  ‘He was new to town. Everybody knew he was a loner. Homeless, y'know?’

  ‘You think he had something to do with Ryan’s death?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know.’ She shook her head again. ‘The whole tragedy of the thing. Poor kid. His whole life ahead of him.’

  ‘But what about the homeless man? What was it that made you think of him?’

  Mrs. Hatfield leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs at the ankles and smoothing down her dress. ‘Well, I'd been sitting on the front porch that night. Y'know I could hear that damn party from here?’ She raised her eyebrows. Laura smiled sheepishly.

  ‘And anyway, I stayed out there longer than usual. It was the first warm night of the year. And the mosquitos didn’t seem to be out yet, so I was enjoying it, just sitting there. Apart from the noise, of course.’

  Laura shifted in her seat, scratching the side of her neck, wishing Mrs. Hatfield would get to the point.

  ‘Anyway, it was late, and I thought it time to call it a night, but then I heard some sort of kerfuffle up at the railway line. An argument of sorts. The noise carried well—must have been the way the breeze was blowing. I didn't know the voice, but it was drunk, slurred words and all that. I wandered up toward Janet's house there on the corner before the line and poked my head out from behind her front tree. The homeless fellow was there. Dressed as usual in his army greens, boots, and torn T-shirt. He was on the track yelling at some kids farther down the line. “Get off my track! This is my track!”’ Mrs. Hatfield flailed her arms around. ‘And some other choice words, mind you! And anyway, he picked up something, I think it was a bottle. Beer probably. Whiskey. Doesn't matter. And stumbled along the tracks and down under the cutting toward the river. I couldn’t see him after that. But, anyway, I didn't think that much of it. Thought he was just heading back to his bridge.’

  Laura slumped her shoulders. Mrs. Hatfield didn't really have much to tell her. At least not the knowledge Laura thought she had.

  ‘Well, it wasn't till the next morning when…’ The old woman hung her head. ‘Never forget it, I will. How the train driver didn't know he'd …’ She inhaled quickly. ‘Anyway, when I was up at the track with the whole bloody neighborhood, I saw a piece of green and black material just like that fellow's pants not far from … So, I thought I should tell the coppers. Turns out it wasn't anything. Well, I don't reckon so, as they never found him. Seemed he’d moved on.’

  Laura bit the inside of her cheek, trying not to let the tears that had backed up behind her eyes escape. She swallowed. ‘I guess we'll never really know.’

  ‘Well …’ Mrs. Hatfield paused and stared at Laura as if she were about to tell her something important. But the intent in her eyes vanished, and she shook her head.

  ‘Mrs. Hatfield?’

  Mrs. Hatfield dismissed Laura’s question with a wave of the hand and nibbled on another biscuit.

  This was all beginning to seem like a waste of time. She was just a wannabe Mrs. Marple.

  Laura thanked Mrs. Hatfield and returned home. An uneasiness still hung over her. Would it make it any better if there was someone else involved? Surely, that would be worse. But still, she couldn’t slow her racing thoughts. She noticed her mum’s library card on the kitchen bench and an idea sprang to mind. Yes, the library. Maybe she could find some more articles from around that time that would help piece things together. There had to be more to it than what was initially reported. She glanced at her watch. The library would be closed now, but she planned to go there first thing in the morning.

  Chapter 10

  Laura shook out her umbrella and swung open the heavy wooden doors to the library. The rain had set in again, endless clouds covering the sky in a gray blanket. She placed her umbrella against the wall and inhaled the familiar scent of old books and carpet freshener; nothing had changed.

  She hadn’t set foot in the library since high school, and it was like stepping back in time. As before, the nonfiction shelves were to the left, fiction to the right, and there was a small children’s room complete with a long beanbag caterpillar that Laura remembered sitting on when she was little, its faded fabric now covered in colored patches where it had been mended. The only change was the small café that had sprung up where the meeting room used to be. Instead of bland board tables, the café held small round tables and cute mismatched chairs. The walls were decorated in posters of classic book covers. But as inviting as the café looked, Laura was here for a purpose.

  She veered toward the back of the library, where she knew the periodicals and archives used to be housed. It was eerily quiet. The only noise was the gentle hum of the heating unit. There were a couple of people browsing the fiction shelves, and a young girl with her back to Laura sitting at one of the private cubicles tapping away on a keyboard. On second glance, Laura was sure it was Gemma and glanced to her left as she walked past, recognizing Gemma’s profile.

  ‘Gemma, hey,’ Laura said, turning to speak with her. Gemma looked up from the computer, and her eyes widened and face flushed. She quickly shut the lid to her laptop.

  ‘Ah, Laura. Um … hi,’ she said, fidgeting with her hands.

  ‘Day off school?’ Laura said, pulling up the chair across from her.

  Gemma’s eyes glanced from side to side. ‘Um, kind of. I wasn’t feeling well so, um … slept in, and then I thought I’d, ah, come to the library to study instead.’r />
  Laura nodded, trying not to furrow her brow. Something was up. Gemma was acting strange, and her story didn’t seem to make sense. But Laura shrugged it off.

  ‘So, you must be in what, year twelve now?’

  ‘Um, yeah.’

  ‘Wow! Time flies. Any thoughts on what you want to do when you finish?’

  Gemma rolled her eyes and shrugged.

  Laura couldn’t put a finger on what it was, but she knew something wasn’t right. The Gemma she once knew seemed like a stranger now. Gone were the joyful dancing eyes, wide smile and enthusiasm for life. It was replaced by dark clothes, kohl-rimmed eyes, and a permanent glower.

  ‘Is everything okay, Gem?’

  Again, Gemma shrugged, her eyes darting around the room before gathering her laptop and sliding it into her backpack. ‘I’d better go. I’m feeling a bit light-headed again,’ she said.

  Laura rose to her feet. ‘Sure. Hey, did you want a lift home? It’s raining cats and dogs out there.’

  ‘Nah, it’s fine,’ Gemma said, pushing her arms through her hooded parka.

  ‘Okay, well. I’ll see you again?’ It was more of a question than a statement. Gemma’s eyes narrowed, and Laura noticed her posture stiffen. It looked like Gemma was about to say something, but then she simply nodded and walked toward the door.

  Laura didn’t want to pry, but an uneasy feeling was lining her gut about Gemma. She made a mental note to talk to Stella. Not that she wanted to be nosy, just out of concern. After all, Stella had mentioned she was worried about her. And Gemma’s dark mood reminded Laura so much of Ryan in those last few months.