The Girl In the Painting

by Téa Cooper

  There in the middle of the room, on a large table bathed in a dazzling stream of light from one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, was the skull and lower jaw of the gigantic marsupial—monstrously huge. It could have swallowed her whole in one terrifying gulp and made short work of every bone in her body with the two enormous tusk-like teeth.

  She tiptoed towards it, hand outstretched, her skin prickling with a mixture of awe and trepidation. Two curved incisors protruded from the lower jaw, thicker than her thumb and at least twelve inches long. She stretched out her arm, measuring the length of the skull—over a yard. How she wished they’d displayed the whole skeleton, it must be larger than a hippopotamus. She backed away, almost barrelling into one of the glass-fronted cabinets crowding the dim perimeter.

  She spun around. Each cabinet contained a different bird, set in its own environment, swooping from boughs or perched atop rocks. Between each display case hung an assortment of paintings and etchings, which, if the Maitland Mercury was to be believed, Major Witherspoon had procured single-handed from the national gallery for Maitland’s benefit. No wonder Elizabeth hadn’t reappeared, there was enough to keep a person occupied for weeks.

  Jane ambled back to the diprotodon. The information on the card said that it was discovered eight feet below the surface on the Darling Downs, the giant teeth poking through a creek bed, and they estimated the specimen was over 100,000 years old. Why had no one ever told her about this before?

  The striking of the clock in the foyer brought her up with a judder. Elizabeth—where was she? Jane made a circuit of the gloomy edge of the room and returned to the centre. She glanced at the diprotodon’s gnashing teeth, an odd unsettling feeling prickling the back of her neck now the beam of sunlight had faded and darkening shadows stretched out their fingers.

  Elizabeth must have left while she was still talking to Mrs Witherspoon. Jane made one more quick lap of the room and threaded her way towards the three massive Gothic arches near the back of the exhibition space, taking care not to nudge any of the cabinets. As she rounded the last set of display cabinets, her foot caught and she turned her ankle. Steadying herself, she bent down to fasten her laces.

  In the corner of the room, in a damp-smelling space between two large cabinets, a figure huddled, knees drawn up to her chest, her hands cradling her bent head as though protecting it. A low noise like a moaning wind filled Jane’s ears.

  ‘G’woam. G’woam.’

  ‘Aunt Elizabeth.’ Jane edged closer, her voice barely more than a whisper, reached down and gave Elizabeth’s shoulder a gentle shake. She flinched and tightened her grasp on her head and the hollow wail echoed. Sinking down, Jane put her arm around Elizabeth’s shoulders. ‘What is it? Let me help you up.’

  Elizabeth didn’t acknowledge her presence, instead her body rocked backwards and forwards and the strange wailing sound intensified, filling Jane with a morbid sense of dread.

  ‘Everything’s all right. Come on. Stand up. Let’s get you back to Aileen House.’

  ‘G’woam. G’woam.’ Elizabeth’s head sank deeper onto her chest, her arms shielding her head.

  Jane’s mind spiralled and she inhaled a steadying breath. It was Elizabeth. She knew it was—the neat, almost masculine grey suit told her so, as did the buttoned boots she always wore, but the voice … the voice wasn’t Elizabeth’s.

  ‘G’woam. G’woam’.

  It sounded like a foreign language, one of the native tongues perhaps.

  The awful wail intensified. Mrs Witherspoon would come barging in any moment. She couldn’t find Elizabeth like this.

  Jane unpeeled Elizabeth’s hand from her head, clasped her gloved fingers, and eased her back against the wall, then wiped the damp hair from her drained skin. The look of horror etched on Elizabeth’s face terrified her more than the dreadful wailing. Beneath her glazed staring eyes her skin sagged, and tracks scored the powder she so carefully applied to her face every morning.

  What should she do? ‘Come on. I’ll help you up, you’ve taken a turn.’

  At the sound of her voice, the tension left Elizabeth and she fell back against the wall. Jane eased her to her feet, slid her other arm around Elizabeth’s shoulder and led her through the strange cloying twilight out into the foyer.

  She settled Elizabeth into a chair against the wall then walked to the desk where Mrs Witherspoon stood poring over the ledgers. ‘Could I trouble you for a glass of water? Miss Quinn has taken a turn. The heat, I think. I’d like to call a hansom cab, it’s too hot for her to walk home, or take the tram.’

  ‘Goodness gracious.’ Mrs Witherspoon rushed across the foyer and peered at Elizabeth. ‘What’s happened?’

  A flash of panic flickered across Elizabeth’s face when Mrs Witherspoon leant over her. The dreadful woman simply made matters worse. Jane drew herself up to her full height. ‘Would you please fetch a glass of water and call a cab.’

  There must have been something in her tone because the interfering busybody swivelled on her heels and as good as ran.

  Jane crouched next to Elizabeth, lifting her hands one by one and placing them in her lap. Despite the oppressive heat, Elizabeth’s hands felt cold, yet there was a fine sheen of sweat on her upper lip.

  ‘G’woam. G’woam.’ Elizabeth hands gravitated towards her head again but Jane held them firm.

  When Mrs Witherspoon reappeared with a glass of water, Jane lifted it slowly to Elizabeth’s lips. As she sipped, a slow tremble rippled across her shoulders.

  Mrs Witherspoon leant forward, enveloping them in a cloud of her sickly sweet fragrance. ‘She’s pale. Feverish possibly. Shall I call the doctor?’ The intense scent of attar of roses must have acted like smelling salts because Elizabeth’s eyes flashed open and within a moment cleared.

  ‘Would you like another drink?’ Jane held up the glass of water.

  Elizabeth shook her head and stumbled to her feet. ‘I’d like to go home.’

  Jane held her fast. ‘Mrs Witherspoon has called a cab. It will be here in moment.’ She flashed a glance over her shoulder at Mrs Witherspoon, who nodded her head and disappeared through the front doors into the street.

  Elizabeth drew in a deep breath and smoothed down her skirt. ‘We’ll walk. It’s not even a mile.’ She stood up and strode to the door, head held high, as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

  Jane left the glass of water on the counter and rushed after her. Mrs Witherspoon must have been better at arranging transport than her accounts because a cab stood waiting.

  ‘Can you follow us, in case we need you? Aileen House, Church Street.’

  The driver doffed his cap. ‘Right you are, Miss Jane.’

  Elizabeth, showing no signs of her previous weakness, ignored the cab. ‘Come along, Jane. Hurry up. We’ve got no time to lose. I’m expecting the ladies from the Benevolent Society.’

  ‘I think perhaps you need to rest—’

  ‘I’m perfectly fine. Stop fussing.’

  They trailed past the bookseller and stationers and Mr Paskin’s Musical Instrument Warehouse, along the High Street. Regardless of what Elizabeth said, her grasp on Jane’s arm tightened with each step and by the time they reached the bank she was placing each foot carefully, taking one step at a time.

  Jane flagged down the cab. Elizabeth sank into the corner of the seat and stared straight ahead for the remainder of the journey.

  With a sigh of relief, Jane pushed open the garden gate and led Elizabeth up the path, past the neatly tended standard roses to the front door. Before Jane could disentangle her hand, Lucy threw the door open. She took one look at Elizabeth and sprang into action. ‘Come inside, come and sit down, it’s so hot out there.’

  ‘Aunt Elizabeth isn’t feeling well. Could you please get her some water, and maybe some tea? I’ll take her up to her room. She needs to rest.’

  Lucy rushed off without any of her usual complaints, and Jane helped Elizabeth up the stairs to her bedroom. She sat her down on th
e bed and removed her buttoned boots, puffed up the pillows, and helped her to slide back against the headboard.

  Elizabeth accepted her ministrations, her eyes wide and staring in her pale face. Jane smoothed her hair back from her forehead, expecting to find her burning up, but her skin felt cool beneath her fingertips. If anything, she felt a little cold. Jane draped a cashmere shawl across her lap and perched on the edge of the bed. ‘Lucy will be up in a moment with some tea, after a rest you’ll feel better.’

  Elizabeth stared blindly at the window, her lips drawn in a tight line, then blinked rapidly as if trying to clear her thoughts.

  ‘It’s all right. You had a turn.’ Jane reached for the pale hand lying on the coverlet. ‘You’ll feel better soon.’

  Elizabeth’s lips trembled and a tear slid down her cheek.

  Jane reached for the handkerchief on the bedside table and wiped it away. ‘You took a turn.’ She smoothed Elizabeth’s forehead. ‘Sleep. It’ll all be over when you wake.’ She straightened the pillow and tucked Elizabeth’s cold hands under the shawl.

  A gentle knock on the door heralded Lucy’s arrival and Jane took the tray from her, ignoring her questioning gaze, and closed the bedroom door firmly.

  Jane held the cup towards Elizabeth. ‘Be careful, it’s hot.’

  Elizabeth shot her an embarrassed look. ‘I don’t want anything.’ She pushed her hands flat against the mattress and eased her way down the bed, her eyelids drooping. Jane smoothed the cover on the bed and drew the curtains over the windows, picked up the cup of tea and drank it herself.

  Something had upset Elizabeth, but she had no idea what. She’d never seen the normally competent woman anything other than perfectly groomed and composed. Lying there with her hair awry and the tear stains tracking her cheeks, she’d aged ten years.

  In all the time Jane had lived at Church Street, Elizabeth had never spent a day in bed. She was always up for breakfast with Michael, immaculately dressed, hair neatly styled, and when she retired at night, always at the same time, the light turned out as though she had some internal clock and it would be a mortal sin to interrupt the preordained timetable of the day. She was as regimented and ordered as the numbers she bludgeoned into neat columns.

  Eight

  Sydney, 1866

  Elizabeth rubbed the heel of her hand against the dirty pane of glass and pressed her nose against the window, watching and waiting. Four days of nonstop rain had turned Sydney’s streets into a mass of smelly puddles and sticky shit.

  It would have to be paid for later, these unexpected few days of idleness. That was the way of it, now Mrs Cameron kept her home from school. There was never any time for reading and she missed it something fierce. No books either, now she couldn’t borrow them. So she read the only one she had, over and over again, the one Michael had bought her for her eighth birthday. It was beginning to feel as though she’d waited as long as Sleeping Beauty for Michael’s return.

  In the beginning he’d come regular as clockwork every quarter, but now he’d got the extra dray he didn’t always do the Sydney run, said he was too busy rebuilding and he had to be in Hill End for his Saturday auction.

  ‘What are you doing staring out of that window?’ Mrs Cameron’s voice startled her and she whipped around. ‘There’s work to be done. As soon as this rain stops we’re going to be up to our armpits in washing.’

  Up to everyone else’s armpits, more than like. Elizabeth wrinkled her nose, trying to rid herself of the permanent smell of sweat-soaked undergarments that permeated the downstairs room where Mrs Cameron housed her ladies’ laundry business.

  She picked up the broom and half-heartedly ran it across the floor, swept the dirt out into the backyard and closed the door before the floor got soaked. The next day there wouldn’t be standing space. Piles and piles of bags full of sweaty, smelly unmentionables and voluminous petticoats, and by evening her skinned knuckles would be red raw from the lye soap after scrubbing away all manner of repulsive stains.

  Mrs Cameron swore by a lye and lard mixture blended with wood ash. It turned Elizabeth’s stomach, not that it was ever full enough to part with the meagre meals they had these days.

  The money Michael sent every quarter ought to feed the three of them a damn sight better, but Elizabeth knew where most of it went—straight into Mr Cameron’s pocket and down to the Fortune of War, where he spent all his time since he’d lost his boat and his business.

  ‘Have you finished down there yet?’

  ‘Almost.’ She shot the last piece of dust under the cupboard and trudged upstairs.

  ‘Come and take my shoes off, my feet are giving me hell’s delight.’

  Sucking in a deep breath, Elizabeth knelt at Mrs Cameron’s feet and slid her felt slippers off.

  ‘Me bunions are near killing me. I cannae get a decent pair of slippers for love nor money.’

  ‘You should ask Michael when he comes.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Because he knows where to get everything. He told me last time that the auction house was selling all sorts of ladies’ finery now more people have moved their families to Hill End.’

  A curl of excitement wound through her. Next time Michael came she was certain he’d take her to Hill End. He kept putting it off, saying the cottage wasn’t ready yet, and she couldn’t sleep in the warehouse because it wasn’t good enough, and there was no one to look after her while he was on the road. She’d just have to try and convince him she wouldn’t be a burden.

  ‘You can wipe that look off your face. God only knows when he’ll turn up next. With all this rain the roads’ll be clogged. He won’t risk it just to see you, and besides I need you here with me.’

  That was true enough. Michael wouldn’t risk the dray while the rivers were in flood, not because he didn’t want to see her, but because the business depended on the drays. He’d explained that to her last time he’d visited.

  When Michael did arrive, she was going to tell him the truth, not like she’d done in the past. Not stand there, mouth closed, accepting everything Mrs Cameron said. When he heard that she wasn’t going to school anymore and had to spend her time up to her elbows in dirty washing, he’d whisk her away just like the handsome prince in her storybook. Away from the smelly laundry, away over the mountains where she’d be with Michael, where she belonged.

  ‘There’s broth on the stove. Go get yourself a bowl, then go down the road and get a couple of pounds of lard and some more lye. Once this rain stops we’ll need more soap.’

  Elizabeth chased a piece of disintegrating potato around the bowl and contemplated the afternoon. Even if the rain stopped, the reek from the steaming streets would be foul. She upended the remains back into the pan and pulled her coat down from the peg behind the door, forcing her arms into the sleeves. It barely came down to her knees and wouldn’t do up anymore; proof, according to Mrs Cameron, that she was getting more than enough to eat and should stop whingeing.

  She made her way up along George Street, stopping now and again to peer into the windows. Last time Michael had been in town he’d taken her to the Café Français on George Street and she’d thought she’d flown to heaven. They’d sat at little metal tables, and when that first spoonful of strawberry ice had landed on her tongue she’d understood just how much more there was to life than smelly unmentionables and watery broth.

  She swiped away the raindrop dangling from the end of her nose and ducked into the grocery store. ‘Two pounds of lard, please and four ounces of lye. On Cameron’s account.’

  The man behind the counter leant over and brought his nose level with hers. ‘Can’t be doing that, love. Not until the outstanding’s paid up.’

  ‘But Mrs Cameron—’

  ‘You heard me, no more credit. Tell Her Majesty to come down and talk to me if she don’t like it.’

  Masking the grin on her face, Elizabeth dawdled a bit longer on the doorstep. Her Majesty wouldn’t take no for an answer, but until sh
e deigned to come down herself there’d be no lard and lye. That meant she wouldn’t be spending the next day elbow deep in smelly unmentionables. Perhaps every cloud did truly have a silver lining.

  When the shopkeeper’s beady eyes began to make her skin prickle, she moved outside into the rain. Head down and collar up, she stepped onto the road and almost missed the huge bullock dray ambling down the road. Squealing, she darted back.

  It ground to a halt close to the corner of George Street.

  ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing? I could’ve squashed you flat.’ Michael’s face glared down at her and her heart almost took flight.

  ‘Michael!’

  ‘Why are you out here in the rain?’

  When he jumped down from the dray she threw herself at him, spread her arms wide as he swung her high in the air, round and round until the world turned upside down and her heart flew into her mouth.

  By the time he put her down, the bullocks had trundled halfway around the corner and they had to run to catch up.

  ‘I thought you’d never come,’ said Elizabeth. ‘It’s been a thousand lonely days and I’ve missed you so.’

  ‘Nowhere near that. Don’t exaggerate.’ Michael snatched her up and plonked her on the front seat of the dray then swung up next to her. ‘You can’t be lonely with all your friends at school. What are you doing out here in the pouring rain?’

  ‘I had to buy lard, for the soap. We’ve run out and after the rain …’ The words dried in her mouth as his eyes narrowed.

  ‘Answer me question. Why weren’t you at school? If you’ve done a runner and ducked off …’ Michael couldn’t imagine why she’d skip school. She loved it. Two spots of colour flushed her pale cheeks, accentuating her thin face.

  ‘Elizabeth?’

  Her lower lip trembled and she snatched at it with her teeth.