I opened my eyes, feeling the something that had been holding me carefully put me down. I lay still, full of suspicion and resentment—then I became angry.
‘Oh no you don’t!’ I yelled, then leapt up and began stuffing my belongings back into my pack. I slung the pack over one shoulder and ran away across the grass. At the tunnel I stopped, remembering my flashlight, and turning around I peered back at the house. The metal casing glimmered on the sill of the boarded-up window, its light a flaw in the portrait of a dusky, deserted building. I turned again and kept running, charged through the tunnel and trees, sprinted over the drenched field in a straight course towards the macrocarpas and the track down to the road. And, because I hadn’t followed the path back through the bone gateway, I had difficulty finding the entrance to the track and had to slow down and pace along the treeline till I located it.
Cold and breathing heavily, I reached the road and began to walk along it again, through a world in isolation: the dark, wet hillside under a faintly lit, overcast sky.
Jill
‘Hey!’ I warned. ‘It’s a hitchhiker. He looks drowned, poor thing.’
‘Oh poor thing,’ Ellen echoed drily. She did, however, stop.
The guy, who had been walking steadily, his eyes fixed on the ground, looked up as our headlights struck him. He came over to the window of the camper and said, ‘Woe! Misery! Can I come in?’ He was a powerfully built man with dark hair and eyes, but his voice was strangely boyish. He sounded American.
Ellen wound down her window. ‘There isn’t enough room in here. But you can let yourself in the back.’ She passed him the key. He disappeared, we heard the side door slam, then his face appeared, grinning at us through the window connecting the cab to the camper.
‘Good God,’ Ellen muttered, eyeing him in the rear vision mirror. I had to agree with her; he did look slightly maniacal. He ambled off down the other end of the camper to peer through the back window at Hannah in my car.
We continued slowly downhill.
Ellen said, ‘Wasn’t he going in the opposite direction?’
‘Probably just pleased to be saved from death by exposure.’
Ellen leaned forward, peering. ‘Do you see—’ she began, then braked suddenly. The campervan slid to a stop. The guy in the back took a tumble, and Hannah barely missed running into us.
Wearing black, scarcely visible in the dark, another man had been walking in the centre of the road. He had looked up, and thrown his huge white hands up before his face. Now he stood, dazzled, his eyes shaded.
Ellen jerked the handbrake. ‘Men in distress, they’re thick on the ground,’ she complained; then, leaning out the window, she yelled, ‘Are you crazy?’
He came over. He was very tall, thin, and pale. He stooped to look in at us. ‘My car is buried back there.’ He pointed. There were streaks of clay through his clothes, clay seeping out in the rain.
Ellen looked at me. ‘Take him around, and bang on the door. The other guy will let you in.’
I got out and took the man’s arm. He looked down at me passively from his great height, and followed. The backpacker opened the door. He was pretending to straighten his nose. He stopped miming and stared at the other man, who was obviously in shock.
I shoved the backpacker out of the way and encouraged the other man to sit by pushing him in the stomach so that he folded at the hips.
We began to move again. The backpacker pulled his sleeping bag out of his pack and draped it around the other man’s shoulders.
‘I’m all right.’
‘You said your car was buried?’
‘Yes. A slip pushed my car off the road and buried it.’
‘With you inside?’ the backpacker asked. He sounded enthusiastic.
The man’s eyes moved slowly to his questioner’s face, then he smiled slowly. ‘I kicked out the back window and squeezed through.’
The campervan stopped again, abruptly. I was sitting next to the newcomer, and we fell over on the bunk. The backpacker sprawled on the floor. ‘Come on!’ he said as he picked himself up.
He and I got out and were joined by Hannah and Ellen.
A landslide, much larger than the one that had stopped my car, had carried away the road for perhaps sixty feet. Earth was still crumbling from the lip of the gouge. By the headlights of our vehicles we could see the roof, boot and back wheels of a car buried in the slip below where the road had run.
‘Let’s get out of here!’ Hannah said, and ran back to my car. We reversed, until we found a wider stretch of road with trees, rather than pasture, above us. Hannah had apparently reasoned that the bank would be stable where it was held together by the roots of large trees.
We crowded into the back of the camper. Five people and a wet pack made an uncomfortable crush. Nor were we parked on level ground, since the safest parking place was unfortunately sloped.
‘How much gas have we got left?’ Hannah asked Ellen.
‘Perhaps enough to heat soup, but I’ll have to hold the pot on the stove.’
Hannah nodded then turned to the man in black. ‘You were lucky not to be buried.’
‘He probably knows that,’ Ellen said.
‘Don’t get mad at me, Ellen. It’s not my fault we’re stuck.’
Ellen turned back to the stove, bristling, and said nothing. The hitchhiker sat, looking from face to face with wide eyes, like a child. Hannah met his stare with a look of distaste, then smirked. ‘Do you have any suggestions?’ she asked, as though addressing a simpleton.
‘Wait out the rain,’ I said. ‘What else can we do? I’ll go back to my car to make more room.’
‘Both you and this guy have had nasty shocks—I’m not planning to turf either of you out.’
‘Are you planning to turf me out?’ the hitchhiker laughed.
‘You could go and sit up front. Free up a bed for this guy.’
Ellen looked over her shoulder, her expression set. ‘After he has had some soup.’
I decided that I would much rather have Hannah disapprove of me than raise Ellen’s ire.
The hitchhiker relaxed. He seemed a cheerful, blithe person. It might have been charming, but the grin and big-doggish happiness were irritating in these circumstances. I’ve noticed that, when disaster strikes, people often become cooperative, considerate and polite. But if it’s just a matter of inconvenience and discomfort they often start lashing out at one another.
A round of introductions would help. ‘I’m Jill,’ I said. ‘I ran into a slip—Hannah and Ellen rescued me.’
‘There’s two slips?’ said the hitchhiker.
‘Afraid so. I’m Ellen. And this is Hannah.’
The tall man pushed back his wet hair. ‘Simon Wrathall.’
I tried to remember where I’d heard his name. ‘I’ve heard of you, haven’t I?’
‘You’ve probably seen my illustrations.’
I remembered. Simon Wrathall was a well-known book illustrator. He’d won awards and had exhibitions. His work was a bit grim, but very good.
‘My name’s Basil. Basil Hanley.’
‘And you’re American.’
Basil went red. ‘I’m Canadian—I don’t sound anything like an American.’
‘Sorry.’
‘American, huh!’ He subsided into muttering.
‘How long have you been down here?’
‘Since October. I was fruit-picking.’
‘I must have passed you on the road earlier and not noticed,’ I said, guiltily. ‘I usually pick people up.’
He frowned slightly. ‘I guess you must have.’
I watched him, changing my mind about my first impression. He wasn’t stupid—I’d mistaken animation for mindlessness.
Ellen shook soup mix into the steaming water. I got up to look for cups. The soup, chicken noodle, was salty and tasted artificial, but it was hot. Basil was glowing with contentment—I supposed he must have been cold and miserable on the road by himself. Simon looked unhappy, proba
bly thinking about his car.
Outside the rain continued. The windows of the camper fogged up. Ellen turned on the radio. The reception in the hills, far from any transmitter, was faint and full of static. We held the transistor so it wouldn’t slide off the sloped table, our heads bent towards it, straining to make sense of the broken voice. It told us of flooding, power cuts, and fears that certain rivers would burst their banks. No assurances from the National Weather Office that the rain would ease off anytime soon. Hannah said, ‘I suppose we wait it out then.’
‘I’ll go sit in the cab,’ I volunteered. I didn’t think I would be cheering company for any of these people.
Hannah gave Basil a sharp look and he jumped. ‘No, I’ll go sit in the cab, lady.’
‘I don’t know that Jill is a lady,’ Hannah said.
Basil’s good-natured expression was giving way to one of hurt. I was angry at Hannah for her heavy-handed policing of everybody’s behaviour—but it was her camper, after all.
Basil got up to go, then turned around at the door. ‘There’s a house up above the road here you know—’
‘Why didn’t you say so earlier!’ Hannah stood up, her head thrust forward and face red. ‘We can go and get some help and shelter for Jill and Simon.’
Basil bit his lip and shrugged. ‘It’s deserted.’
Hannah wasn’t going to let it go. She must have felt she was in danger of losing face. ‘Well, I wouldn’t have just assumed it would be no use to us. We might be more comfortable up there, if we can get inside. Is it habitable?’
‘Yeah, without a doubt.’ Basil said. ‘Great place, ideal place to take shelter. Fancy not thinking of it before—silly me.’
‘It’s OK, Basil,’ I said. His voice had gone vague and cool and he was clearly very annoyed.
Hannah looked at me as though I was guilty of some sort of insubordination. I ignored her. ‘Is it far from the road?’
‘About five minutes’ walk.’
‘Do you think we could get inside?’
‘I’m sure we could.’
I studied his expression. It was quiet and patient, but I felt it disguised some other emotion. He wasn’t stiff-backed, the sort of stance many men would take when being taken to task by a woman. His face was pale, his brown eyes level and serious. I felt as though he were waiting for someone to ask a particular question, one he would have to answer with the truth, not a commonplace.
I think Hannah thought he was either being defensively casual, or had capitulated, and didn’t care which. She had made her decision. She began to stuff some blankets into a bag. Basil waited, watching me. I felt stupid and slow.
‘Can you walk up the hill?’ Hannah asked Simon.
‘Yes.’
‘Take our food, Ellen.’
Ellen saluted, then began rummaging in the safe.
I said, ‘Could I have my keys, Hannah? I’ll get the rug out of my car.’
She tossed me my keys. Basil stepped aside and I went out.
The rug was in the back seat. I unzipped my nylon parka and tucked the rug inside it. I took my torch and a paperback I found in the glove compartment: Peter Straub’s Shadowlands, which I had been reading weeks before and forgot about when Dan tried to kill himself.
After the funeral Dan would start drinking every night when he got home. He’d down glass after glass of cheap dry sherry, and would follow me around the house, his face slack and glossy with sweat, saying hateful things. I gave up arguing with him, numbed and ashamed by the things he said, half believing him when he told me I was useless, a burden to him, when he said he thought I hated him. For, although I understood that what he said was not true, nor what he really believed himself, somehow the abuse sapped my self-esteem, making me believe I was too weak to save him, or even to decide to leave him.
Over months I watched the character of a stranger eclipsing my husband’s, his loved face becoming sour and ill-meaning. And, to me, phrases of anger and disappointment which once would have been impossible to voice became natural and ready answers. Many nights I lay awake waiting for him to come home. Unable to sleep because he wasn’t in, worrying that he might have had an accident; knowing that if he had an accident and was killed, then it would all be over, my decision made for me. Many nights I lay listening and thinking: ‘I don’t care if I lie awake forever, this time don’t come home.’
Every week I would say to myself, ‘I’ll give up trying,’ but it was never explained to me exactly what one did when one ‘gave up’. Every morning he would be there, getting up late, eating breakfast in silence, unhurried, defying my uneasiness and misery. And we wouldn’t meet each other’s eyes—sometimes weeks passed when we wouldn’t look at each other.
Nicky was not my daughter. How could I share his sorrow? he said. How could I know how he felt? How lost, old, infirm, confused? Before Nicky died, he told me, life wasn’t real. It was all only an illusion. All happiness was an illusion. And it was easy for me, I didn’t have to keep working, going out into the world, meeting people—my life was simple.
Simple. Simple for the stepmother who couldn’t own her own grief.
I spent one weekend at my sister’s, trying to recover enough strength to decide what to do. We talked about how terrible it was that I should be forced to hate my husband when I wanted to help him. Mary told me to write out the phone numbers of counsellors or the address of Alcoholics Anonymous, leave them on the breakfast bar and get out. It was sound advice.
I drove home. Dan had been so sure that I wouldn’t return. He swore that Friday that he knew I was going for good. The house was quiet and dark. In the lounge the TV poured a flickering radiance over the walls and furniture. Its faint, tinny voice followed me down the hall. Dan was in the bedroom. On the bed beside him was a bottle of red vermouth, a packet of Panadol and a tin of rat poison. The room smelled of wormwood.
I didn’t touch him, but stood at the foot of the bed, staring. His face was dusky red and slick with sweat, his breath ragged. I wandered out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, filled the kettle, switched on an element and stood at the stove with my arms folded. Reflected in the black window, my face was young and serene.
Before the kettle had boiled I found I had wandered back into the bedroom, and was standing again at the foot of the bed. Dan looked much the same. I walked into the hall, picked up the receiver and dialled my sister’s number. Roger answered.
‘Could I speak to Mary?’
‘Sure Jill.’ His hand covered the receiver, but I heard him say, ‘It’s Jill again. Don’t be so long this time, I’m tired.’
Mary’s voice: ‘Are you OK? Get home all right?’
‘Dan’s tried to kill himself.’
‘Oh God! Where is he?’
‘He’s on the bed.’
A long pause, then: ‘Have you called an ambulance?’
‘No. Should I?’
‘Of course you should! I’ll do it—just hang on.’ Mary hung up. The kettle was whistling, I took it off.
Half an hour later an ambulance arrived. I heard them crunching up the gravel path and went to unchain the door. I told them where Dan was and they hurried past. I had put the door on the chain when I came in—Dan hadn’t chained it, he had obviously overlooked it, or left it open for me, believing I would come home.
‘Will you come with us, Mrs Morgan?’ one of the men asked. I picked up my bag from the hall table, left the lights on and followed them. At the hospital they gave me a tranquilliser and I tried helpfully to answer questions. A doctor told me Dan probably had liver damage, more from the handful of Panadol he’d taken than the poison, or the months of heavy drinking. She said Dan was lucky to be alive.
A nurse decided that someone should escort me home, and asked me Mary’s number. I told her, ‘I don’t remember.’ I said, ‘Everything seems to have left me.’
The others were waiting for me on the road. I slipped Shadowlands into my parka pocket and followed them. Basil led us up some bricked steps under
the trees.
Kelfie
I found the camper and the car, then left the road when I saw a weak light wandering over the walls of the old house.
I’d been on the property once before. It was summer, and I’d walked in the orchards behind the house, through the ragged grass where wasps buzzed and burrowed in windfall apples. I took pictures: of the weed-choked beds of the kitchen garden, the pump by the kitchen door, the slimy curve of the brick pathway, the sagging line of a picket fence sunk in hollyhocks, and the green-shaded heat-traps of rose-trellis tunnels. Romantic stuff. I never photographed the gateway; it was too special.
The house itself was teasingly possessed of personality and intent. I remember turning my back on it in the late afternoon, taking pleasure in my own strength, denying myself a mystery—enjoying denying myself. I was in one of those moods where, if you happen to be shopping and you see something you’ve been looking for for years, you have the strength to walk out of the shop—though you kick yourself later on. The house was haunted, but it wasn’t going anywhere. It offered me an unusual adventure, but I was more interested in the ease of power I felt in turning my back and walking away.
This night was different. It was wet and there were people up there, people who travelled in flash campervans and Pollyanna-cheerful yellow Toyotas. I followed them, full of curiosity and a sort of malicious amusement.
They were standing in the porch. Nearest to me, on the steps, just out of the rain, was a very tall man with a wet sleeping bag draped over his shoulders. The others were crowded around a window, trying to remove the boards. One, a big, husky woman, was saying, ‘If we can get one away we can use it to lever the others.’ She was tugging at the lowest plank.
‘Can I have a go?’ He had a Canadian accent.
‘Well that’s a little better than “Here, let me do that, lil lady”,’ the elegant blonde said, doing the square-jawed hero of some B-grade Western.
The Canadian repeated the question, his voice unconsciously becoming softer and higher pitched. She shrugged and sauntered out of the way. He began struggling with the window. Both he and she were the sort of people who didn’t know how best to use their strength—they expended a lot of energy without exerting a great deal of force.
After Z-Hour Page 3
