Stories From The Heart

by Amanda Prowse

  ‘You are not nothing; you are my friend, my only friend. I don’t know what I would do without you.’

  ‘Slade…’

  ‘Slade what? Did he do this?’ Susie was eager for an insight, but Elouera fell silent, slipping into a deep sleep.

  As the dawn broke, Loulou sat up and attempted a smile. Susie had never been so happy.

  5

  Susie awoke to the sun of the Northern Territory beating down mercilessly on her tin roof, and realised that today was a special day: it was Nicholas’s first birthday. She thought about how much she had changed since giving birth to her precious son and coming all the way across the world in order to find him a better life. Susie smiled ruefully as she felt the sharp bite of her hip bones against her mattress on the floor, noted the concave hollow of her stomach and the edge to the reflection of her cheek bones. Her curves had been flattened, her bust gone, her muscle lean. She didn’t mind the changes; in fact with Mitch’s advances growing coarser all the time, they suited her just fine.

  These days, Nicholas was walking on the wobbly legs of a drunk, stumbling from point to point with his eye on what he could grab next to steady himself. He was a sweet-natured baby, who liked to kiss his mummy’s face and could almost say ‘yes,’ ‘moo’ ‘Loulou’ and ‘sheeps’. They weren’t entirely clear, but he said them with such regularity and in response to most questions, that she and Loulou knew what he meant. He made his mother laugh and she was thankful beyond words that despite the conditions in which they lived, she still found joy in everything her baby boy did and said.

  Susie lay still, thinking of that day twelve months before, when she had been cleaning in the hallway at the mother-and-baby home. She could remember every last detail with perfect clarity. She had reached up with a feather duster and removed cobwebs and specs of dust, visible only to the eagle eyes of Sister Kyna, from the wall lights. She remembered carefully removing the fragile glass cloche from a candle bulb as she had been instructed, using the duster to scoot around the fluted edge. Reaching up to replace it, her body had convulsed without warning, her hands jerked and the delicate glass shade hit the tiled floor, shattering into a million fragments. Her roommate Dot had rushed over, and Susan remembered the sound of the glass as it crunched underfoot. Dot had placed her hand on Susan’s lower back as she bent over, trying to ease the pain. Things had happened fairly quickly after that, a warm cascade of viscous water ran down her leg and splattered on the black-and-white floor, before she was marched to the infirmary.

  She remembered the harsh strip light of the maternity ward and the rubberised doors that swung back and forth. The waves of pain that swept her body and took her breath away and finally, the sound of her babies, her twins crying in unison, it sounded like music. Oh Abigail, happy birthday my darling girl. One whole year and I miss you as much now as I did then. Remember me Abigail, please remember me.

  Susie cried all day. She couldn’t help it. This was not the birthday that she had dreamt of for her son, she had a vision of him sitting like a little prince among new clothes, fresh nappies, with one of those liquid filled teething rings that you popped in the fridge, a mini xylophone and a plastic ball rattle on a stick attached to a sucker that you spat on and stuck to a high chair tray, all the things she wanted to buy him. Every time she looked at Nicholas, she saw the gap next to him where his sister should have been. Even when Nicholas was presented with a cake that Loulou had made, an iced sponge cake with one proud, blue candle, Susie could not stop the tears from falling. She pictured a similar cake, with a pink candle, being presented by strangers to her little girl.

  That evening, she and Nicky went for a walk. She had got into the habit of taking him down to the small lake at the back of the main house, behind the garden, where a big fat tree trunk made the perfect bench on which to sit and talk. Their daily jaunt was taken just before Nicholas’s bedtime, when the sun was sinking and the pinky hue of the sky threw a pretty veil over even the hardest of days. With his podgy hand in hers, they would totter along the five-hundred-yard-long track, twenty minutes there and only ten back, as he hitched a ride on his mother’s back. She chatted to him as she always did about England, grass and cricket in the park, about going to the beach and the tasty, prize-winning carrots that her grandpa grew on his allotment. Nicky listened with eyes wide, occasionally chewing the corner of the birthday card clutched in his hand, on which Elouera had drawn a big red heart – a reminder that he was loved.

  Nicholas sped up and raced ahead as far as his chubby, little legs would allow, their seat was in sight. He dropped the card in his excitement, and Susie took her eyes off him for one second as she bent to pick it up. When she straightened, Susie swallowed the scream that hovered in her throat. Her son had stooped and gathered up a snake that he now held in both his hands.

  Ignorant about the species in this strange land, she had no idea if this slithering creature could kill her son with one well-placed bite or was as harmless as a shrew. Her heart hammered in her chest just the same. She wished Loulou was with them. Studying its olive-green body, she looked for clues as to its nature. It had large eyes and what might its pale yellow throat and belly mean, was that a good sign? A bad one? Would a sudden movement make it strike? Fuck. She didn’t know anything. Her hands shook and her voice warbled. ‘Nicky, listen to Mummy, put that yucky snake on the ground and let’s go and find a bun! That’s a good boy. Put it on the floor and let’s go home!’

  Susie watched as the reptile’s long, thin, tongue darted out towards her son’s hand, seeming to taste the air around it.

  ‘Fuck! Drop it, Nicky! Now!’

  Nicky was nonchalant as he bent down and rested his fat bottom on his haunches, before purposefully placing the creature in the dust. It wound off at speed, leaving an S-shaped track along the scrub, and came to rest under a large spiky tree near their bench.

  Susie ran forward and scooped her son up, kissing his face, ‘oh, Nicky, oh my love, I can’t stand it, I can’t stand the idea of anything happening to you! I can’t! You mustn’t pick up snakes. Never. They might hurt you!’

  Nicholas wriggled free of her restrictive grip and waddled back towards the water, he was not about to waste their journey by going home without throwing sticks into the pond. He turned to see if his mum was following, ‘Fuck!’ he shouted with more clarity than she had heard him use in his speech before. Susie howled with laughter. ‘Oh that’s perfect. Bloody perfect,’ she whispered towards the heavens.

  The next day, like every other, Susie woke early and toiled in the kitchen, percolating coffee on top of the stove and whipping eggs in a large bowl, while she fired up the oven. Mitch, Slade and the Jackaroo were seated on the terrace, waiting as usual. As she tipped a hot omelette from the metal skillet onto her employer’s plate, she felt Mitch’s brawny hand snake over her buttocks, gripping what little there was to grab.

  ‘Reckon, I’ll get rid of the boys early tonight, give you and me a bit of time alone, how’s that sound?’

  The Jackaroo snorted laughter through his nose, and Slade looked flustered. He lowered his face and stared at the cracked table top. Susie tried to free her tongue, which had stuck to the dry roof of her mouth. Her hand was shaking, causing the spoon to bang against the edge of the skillet. Mitch laughed, ‘What’s a matter, love? You want flowers first?’

  She shook her head. She didn’t want flowers first, she just wanted to go home.

  ‘That’s just as well. And it might be good to remember that you were a fucking good-for-nothing in your own country and you’re a fucking good-for-nothing here, you just talk different. You’s on my land now and that tin roof over your head can be taken away with the click of my finger, d’y’understand?’ She nodded, too terrified to speak and achingly grateful that baby Nicholas slept soundly; his crying would only have inflamed the situation.

  Mitch spat, ‘Reckon you need breaking in and reckon I’m growing a little lonely in the big house all by myself. What d’you think girlie
, that I pulled you all the way from England so as you could fix me soup? Your duties go way beyond that and you’ve been shirking up till now. Don’t think I don’t know your game. Hiding away with the boy in your little shed. I’ve stopped by once or twice, watched you sleeping all pretty in your undies. Out for the count you were, didn’t hear a thing, but I watched you.’ He ran his tongue over his top lip. ‘And your sweet little boy.’

  Susie swallowed the bile that leapt in her throat, the very idea of him watching her, of being close to her, was bad enough, but now was he threatening Nicholas? It was more than she could bear. Slade busied himself, cleaning under his nails with a paring knife that he kept in his top pocket. His cheeks were bright scarlet.

  That afternoon as Susie took a break and lay on her mattress with Nicholas sleeping soundly in her grasp, she contemplated the night ahead of her. She thought about what was to come, tried to imagine Mitch’s skin against her own, and tried not to think about the smell of him or the way his eyes shone when he grabbed at her flesh. She sniffed up the tears that clogged her mouth and nose and cried harder than she had in a very long time. The thought that Mitch might come to the room tonight and force himself on her was almost too much to bear. She wiped away her tears, ‘Think, Susie, come on think!’

  She hadn’t meant to fall asleep but a full two hours later she was woken up by a commotion outside; shouts, the sound of horses and the Jackaroo’s voice raised, as a blanket of panic settled over Mulga Plains. Placing Nicholas in his cot, she smoothed her hair and wiped away the residue of her tears. Walking out into the sun, she shielded her eyes as the late afternoon rays pierced her vision with their glare.

  Slade ran towards her, with his small head wobbling like a pea on a drum, his question left his mouth when he was within ten feet, ‘When’s the last time you saw, Mitch?’ His cheeks were flushed, he sounded breathless, a little hysterical.

  ‘I don’t know, earlier, I gave him his lunch on the deck, he ate it and then I came back here. Why, where is he? Is everything all right, Slade? What’s going on?’

  ‘No it aint. I’ve just been in to find him. Thought he was crunk, out cold, but he’s not.’

  Susie considered this, ‘Well he’s probably gone out with one of the hands, he’ll turn up, Slade.’

  ‘No you dozy Pom, it’s not that he’s missing. I know exactly where he is.’

  ‘Oh. Well I don’t understand, I thought you couldn’t find him.’

  ‘I found him all right, but here’s the thing, he’s dead!’

  ‘He’s what?’ As the strength left her legs, she needed it repeating.

  ‘He’s dead!’

  She flung her hand to her mouth; her heart beat loudly in her ears. She felt elated, relieved and guilty all at once. Then, slowly, the fear crept in. What would happen to her and Nicholas now? With no sponsor and no job, what exactly would happen to her and her son?

  6

  Mitch’s death left Susie in a state of flux. Rather than provide her with instant sweet relief, she instead felt anxious, frightened. She was torn between enjoying her new-found freedom away from the pawing hands of the deceased and the daily fear of what might happen to her and Nicholas now.

  Without her defined role, she tended to hover, awaiting her fate in a different way than before. She cooked for the visitors and ranchmen, staying in the background and waiting until rooms were empty before scuttling in like an old retainer, clearing crockery and sweeping crumbs from the table. At least with Mitch gone, the guests ate in the dining room and not on the veranda where the heat of the sun was enough to make her faint as she looped from table to kitchen and back again, carrying trays, plates and bottles.

  It was on a hot, hazy morning as she balanced the unwieldy bowl of liquid on the edge of the card table, when she looked across the terrace and saw the car pull up. This was not unusual, for the last few days, many a vehicle had kicked up a dust as it stopped in front of the gates and poured forth people from all over, neighbours from a few miles away and suppliers from other side of the state. All were keen to pay their respects to the sheep station owner who had provided them with a living and was at present laid out in his best and only suit on the dining room table. She had avoided setting foot in there since the funeral home had delivered him earlier that day and this was how she would remain until he was buried tomorrow. The thought of witnessing him dead was almost as repellent as seeing him when he was alive.

  Susie noted that many of the visitors were just as keen to enquire about his will as they were to drink and reminisce about good old Mitch who had in death, for many, lost his vulgar air. Indeed the man to whom they referred bore no resemblance to the hard drinking, foul smelling creature that had manhandled her until her heart beat in her throat with naked fear. It was strange how death could do that to a person.

  She rolled the long white sleeves of the shirt up over her elbows, revealing her muscular forearms. She noted how tanned her skin was against the pale cotton – without a mirror or the time to study herself, she assumed her face was similarly coloured; certainly the ends of her hair had gone from chestnut to blonde.

  Dipping the cloth into the metal bowl full of soapy water, she wrung out the excess before wiping it over the window sill and submerging it again beneath the bubbles. Bringing the cloth out and wringing it once again. Susie watched as the back door to the shiny cream Holden opened. She wondered which land owner or supplier would lumber out and remove his hat and loosen his tie. She would of course offer cake and a cup of tea or something stronger, steering them towards the parlour where they could sit with the other mourners and Mulga Plains staff, who hadn’t sobered up for the best part of a week. They were eager to greet any new arrival, as it was a good excuse to top up their glass. And yet, the man who stepped out from the back of the car was not a land owner or supplier. He was a smart-looking man with pressed white trousers and a blue jacket. Looking closer, Susie was shocked to see that he was wearing the uniform of a naval officer.

  He looked to be a couple of years older than she was, tall and straight-backed, with thick, dark short hair visible beneath his hat. His skin was weathered, and under neatly arched brows, his blue eyes were cold and clear. Most importantly, he wore the uniform of the British. Susie had seen this cap, badge and shirt countless times in the harbours and seaside towns in which she had grown up. Home… he reminded her of home. A pang of longing twisted in her stomach. Ironically, he was just the sort of man that her mother would approve of – the sort of man with clean fingernails and a commanding stature. The sort of man that she would always have run a mile from.

  She felt flustered at seeing him and as she turned, she caught the edge of the precariously balanced bowl, sending the water cascading over the deck and the metal clattering against the timber with an almighty crash. She crouched down and mopped ineffectively at the soapy pool that gathered on the floor. Tuning to her right, she came face to face with the shiny toes of two black, polished shoes.

  ‘Hello down there!’ He had the merest hint of an Antipodean twang to his vowels.

  She shook her head, too nervous to speak. He reached down and with his palm towards her, urged her to stand. She placed her hand inside his and stood slowly. His eyes flitted between her face that was upturned towards his own and her braless form that was perfectly visible beneath her wet shirt.

  ‘Any more water in that bowl and I’d be ditching the car and heading back for one of my ships.’ He smiled, an odd half smile that used only one side of his mouth. She glimpsed his white, even teeth, and Susie smiled back before immediately casting her gaze downwards, ashamed by her appearance. He was not to be deterred, ‘I’m Phillip, Phillip Gunnerslake. Mitch was my uncle. Haven’t been to this old dump for years, I’ve just arrived with my wife.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Susie whispered, although what she was apologising for wasn’t quite clear. She stared at him; noticing the tiny rivulets of sweat that gathered on his top lip. He pushed his dark hair away from his forehead and
seemed not to notice her, casting his gaze around the terrace. Her heart hammered in her chest and her face flamed. She hoped he couldn’t read her thoughts.

  ‘I don’t know your name.’ Phillip asked with indifference.

  ‘I’m just, Susie…’ She reached out, trying to grasp the sud-covered bowl in her wet hands, but it slipped further out of her reach.

  ‘Do you need a hand there, Miss Susie?’

  He spoke slowly, and smiled his strange half-smile again.

  ‘Phillip!’ It was almost a scream. He practically leapt from the terrace. The woman, seemingly his wife, was a generous-hipped redhead who stood with her hands on her waist and several suitcases around her feet, ‘Are you going to help me with these or do break my back doing it alone?’ The woman’s English accent would, under different circumstances, have been a balm, but her nasal tone irritated Susie. She wore a lemon-coloured paisley mini dress with matching coat and pill box hat. It was more suited to a wedding than a funeral, Susie thought, but then who was she to comment, she was wearing men’s clothes that smelt of moth balls. The woman’s hair had been curled and set, the dry ends were starting to frizz in the heat.

  Phillip gritted his teeth and barked a short laugh. ‘No drama, Joanne, I’m coming.’

  The night was pulling its blind on the day when Susie slunk back to her little shed after the drunken ceremony that had been Mitch’s funeral. Her print frock, one of Mitch’s wife’s, was soaked with sweat and clung to her back. Susie had been glad of the gift, it would have been worse to skivvy for these people in her usual shirt and trousers. Nicholas was awake, sitting up in his cot, chatting to himself as he often did; Loulou was by his side. She stood, ambling towards the house in the darkness, ready to get back to washing dishes in the kitchen, trying to keep up with demand from the funeral guests outside.