Cassandra

by Kathryn Gossow

  In the schoolwork pavilion, children from around the district have their writing and pictures displayed behind glass cases. Cassie’s handwriting is there, alongside Natalie’s, which has won second prize. Alex has won first prize for his picture of the pink hills with a fence running up the side and dark clouds in the sky. Cassie didn’t see that coming.

  ‘The hills aren’t really pink,’ Cassie complains.

  ‘You can make the hills any colour you like when you are painting,’ her mother replies.

  Ida peers at the picture behind the glass. ‘Well, the judges don’t seem to care what colour he did the hills. I wonder how the cattle went. That young bull has a good chance of winning a prize.’

  They step outside the pavilion into an explosion of dusty wind. The women have given up holding their hair in place to concentrate on keeping their skirts decently around their knees.

  ‘Oh gosh,’ Aunt Ida giggles, ‘let’s get out of this wind and get a cup of tea.’

  Cassie lets her hair whip around her face and her skirt fly like a kite. The tinny rock and roll from the amusement rides, their crunching and whirring punctuated by gleeful screams, whisks around them.

  ‘Can I go on a ride now?’

  ‘After we’ve had a cup of tea,’ her mother says.

  ‘If you give me some money I can go on my own.’

  ‘You will not. You don’t know who is out there. Someone might snatch you away.’

  ‘Who?’

  Her mother gives her the ‘enough young lady’ look, similar to the ‘act your age’ look, which always frustrates Cassie because she is still a kid and thinks she should be allowed to act like one. What is wrong with running around like a kid when you’re a kid?

  ‘Can I have a dagwood dog then?’

  She eats the dagwood dog, the tomato sauce dribbling onto her fingers, as they walk to the Ladies Auxiliary Tea Room. The tea room is a warm steaming cave full of women in their best day dresses and windblown hair.

  ‘Can you see a table?’ Aunty Ida asks.

  ‘I can,’ says Cassie, ‘look over there in the corner.’

  ‘You go and get the table and we’ll get the tea.’

  ‘Can I have a piece of cake, please?’ Cassie says and begins to weave her way across the room, never taking her eyes off the vacant table. She squeezes between chairs and arrives at the table at the same time as a lady in an old-fashioned dress the colour of toffee apples, along with white gloves and a round red hat. The woman balances a cup of tea in one hand and a plate of triangular sandwiches in the other.

  ‘Sorry,’ Cassie says. She looks around for another table.

  ‘It’s fine, dear.’ The woman puts her tea and sandwiches on the white paper tablecloth. ‘We can share. I saw you with Ida. You’re her niece, aren’t you?’

  ‘Her great niece.’

  ‘Oh course, Peter’s girl. We are all getting old, aren’t we? Sit down. Where’s your mother?’

  Cassie sits and points to the tea line. ‘With Aunty Ida.’

  ‘Oh well, won’t it be nice to catch up? It’s crowded in here, isn’t it? Everyone wants to get out of the wind. I don’t mind the wind myself. Helps to blow the cobwebs out, clear the mind of clutter. I used to think if I ran with the wind it would pick me up and I would fly. Maybe it will one day.’ The woman’s laugh is thick and smooth like golden syrup.

  Cassie smiles at her and crosses her arms over her chest.

  ‘You don’t remember me, do you? You were knee high to a grasshopper when I saw you last. I’m Mrs McPhail. Your Aunty Ida’s husband, your Uncle George, was my cousin. We lost him in the war, though I expect you know that.’

  Cassie nods.

  ‘Yes, kicked the bucket, gone and dead.’ The woman sighs.

  Cassie hides a laugh behind her hand. The woman smiles at her, ‘Your Great Uncle George always was a klutz. If anyone was going to get in the way of a bullet it was him.’

  Cassie lets her smile show. ‘My brother Alex is clumsy too.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope there is no war for him to have to fight.’

  ‘Vera, look at you—I remember that dress.’ Ida stands over the table.

  The woman looks up at Ida and smiles gracefully. ‘Yes, it still fits me! It’s lovely to see you, Ida. Still baking those lamingtons, I see.’

  Aunt Ida pulls her cardigan across her stomach.

  ‘Cassie, it’s rude to take someone else’s table,’ her mother says quietly but clearly so the lady will hear too.

  ‘The lady said …’ Cassie starts.

  ‘It’s fine … Rose, isn’t it?’ The lady holds out her hand.

  ‘Rose, this is Vera, George’s cousin. You met her, I think, at the Lutheran Deb ball a few years ago,’ Ida says.

  ‘I remember,’ her mother says, still holding the tea tray.

  ‘Please, sit down,’ the lady drops her hand and gestures to the spare seats.

  Her mother and Aunty Ida sit down, tucking their skirts under their legs. Her mother passes Cassie scones and jam.

  ‘Wasn’t there any chocolate cake?’ Cassie says.

  ‘What do you say, Cassie?’ her mother replies.

  ‘Thank you.’ Cassie pulls the scones towards her. She bites into one. It is dry and sticks in her mouth like eating clumps of dirt. She never did like scones much.

  ‘So Ida, I don’t see much of you these days,’ the lady says. ‘I am just so busy. Johnny,’ she turns to Rose, ‘that’s my oldest boy, he’s in business, pumps, machines, mowers, these new house blocks in town, there is lots of call for mowers, brought me a sweet house in town, nothing much, nice big garden. But I’ve no time for the garden. I’m always out and about. Friends taking me here and there.’ She waves her sandwich back and forth, picks up her cup and takes a large sip and looks at Cassie. ‘No rest for the wicked, hey?’

  Cassie nods to be polite and looks down at the tablecloth ringed with teacup-shaped stains.

  ‘That scone looks a bit dry,’ the woman continues. ‘You should have tried the chocolate cake. Mrs Myers made it. She’s a dab hand.’

  She turns back to Ida. ‘Tell me, Ida, how is that handsome brother of yours? I always liked Gus. He’s got a bit of eccentricity in his old heart. Lord knows where he gets it from. It was so sad to hear he lost his Lily. When was that? Ten years must be now.’

  ‘A bit more than ten years. He’s doing fine. He’s over at the cattle with Peter and Alex,’ Ida replies, stirring her tea.

  ‘Alex?’

  ‘Alexander, my boy,’ her mother says. ‘He won a prize for one of his paintings—in the school pavilion.’

  ‘Well I never—talent. Which side of the family does he get that from, Ida?’

  Aunty Ida takes a sip of her tea and appears interested in something going on at the next table.

  ‘Aunty Ida won a prize for her jam,’ Cassie adds.

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me. Sweet tooth Ida, we always called her.’

  Ida puts down her scone without taking a bite. ‘How is the rest of your family, Vera?’

  Vera begins a running list of names and jobs and their children and their schools. Cassie manages to finish her scone and then spies Natalie across the room.

  Her mother leans over to her. ‘That’s Natalie—from your class, isn’t she? Why don’t you go over and say hello? You could go on the rides with her.’

  ‘No, I’m okay,’ Cassie says.

  Natalie sits at the table with Michelle and two older girls. She can’t find Natalie’s mother anywhere. One of them looks over to Cassie and she turns back to her empty scone plate. When she looks back they are leaning in, their heads huddled in the centre of the table, laughing.

  ‘You should go over.’ Her mother smiles encouragingly. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I said no.’ Cassie frowns at her mother and drags the suga
r bowl closer. She lifts a spoonful of glittering sugar and watches it cascade back into the bowl.

  Her mother pushes the bowl back to the centre of the table.

  ‘What about your granddaughter—Maria?’ Vera asks.

  ‘Maria, Maria, what a scandal Maria is. Ran off to a place down south called Nimbin for some festival and never came back. Living in a house with a million other people. One of those hippies, I think you call them.’

  Ida grins and pushes her empty teacup to the centre of the table.

  ‘Before she left, Maria taught me to read tea leaves. Give me your cup and I’ll read your future.’

  Cassie’s attention snaps back to the woman in red. Ida pulls her teacup back.

  Cassie sits up straight. ‘Mum’s finished her tea—you can read hers.’ She shudders as though a million ants are crawling into the pores of her skin.

  ‘You have to start, Rose. Pick up the cup, by the handle, that’s it, now turn it left and right nice and fast.’ The woman demonstrates with a flick of her wrist.

  Cassie’s mother gives her a dirty look before swinging her cup back and forth.

  ‘Very good, now turn it over and let it drain on the saucer. Just as well they’re so slap dash with their tea strainers here or we could never know what will happen tomorrow.’

  They all stare at the cup—as if it is a sleeping kitten they expect to leap up and play a lively game at any second.

  ‘That will do, let us see what the world has in store for you, Rosie.’ The woman reaches across the table and picks up the cup. She peers into it, her eyebrows squeezing together in concentration. ‘I see wealth, a win of some kind. Do you play the Pools? You should get a ticket in the Pools. And … I see … oh how exciting, another baby. A girl for sure. Another little girl, with blond hair this time. Are there any blondes in your family?’ She puts the cup down.

  ‘Show me how it works! Do Aunty Ida’s, pleeease,’ Cassie begs.

  ‘Oh course, my dear.’ The woman smiles at Cassie. ‘An excitable one, this one. You’ll have to watch her. Ida, you saw how it was done. Pick up your cup and give it a swing.’

  Ida picks up the cup and shakes her head at Cassie. Cassie smiles back at her and clasps her hands together under the table, trying to keep them still.

  ‘Now my dear, let me explain. Your old aunty here is transferring her energy to the tea leaves. She could ask the tea leaves a question if she likes. Are you asking the tea leaves a question, Ida?’

  ‘No.’ Ida puts the teacup on the saucer with a clang.

  ‘Careful, Aunty.’ Cassie straightens the cup.

  ‘Come around here, Cassandra, and stand by me,’ the woman says. Cassie stands behind the woman and leans over her shoulder. She smells of flowery perfume and powder.

  The woman lifts her wrist and looks at her small gold watch. ‘We wait about a second or two, so the leftover tea can drain out.’ Cassie watches the second hand move around the circle, ever so slowly it seems.

  ‘Now, we turn the cup over. See how the tea leaves are spread throughout the cup? They make pictures, don’t they?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Cassie, although really they look like splotches.

  ‘The pictures all mean different things, different things that are going to happen. The closer the picture is to the top of the cup, the sooner it will happen. The deeper into the cup, the further into the future it will be. Easy, you see?’

  ‘Uh ha.’ Cassie can’t take her eyes off the inside of the cup. The tea leaves stick to the shiny white porcelain in meaningless clumps and sprays.

  ‘Now, let’s see here.’ The woman turns the cup around in a circle. ‘I see it now. Ida, you old devil. You see there, Cassie, I see a man. A man coming into your life. Tall, dark and handsome, and he has all his own hair. That’s a good thing. George was already half bald before he went off to war.’

  Ida snatches the cup from her and sets it back down on the saucer.

  ‘Temper, temper, Ida.’ The woman laughs her deep laugh. She points into the distance. ‘Oh look, over there, my friend Wilhelmina. I must go and say hello. It has been so lovely to see you all, and what a wonderful young girl Cassandra has grown into. You must come and visit me some time. Hooroo for now.’ She waves her hand at them and walks away from the table.

  Aunty Ida and her mother don’t say goodbye. They look at each other like someone has just done a smell. Cassie leans between them and picks up her mother’s teacup. A little sister, with blond hair. What would she look like? She looks deep in the cup. She doesn’t know what she is looking for. All she can see is a row of little crosses and one big cross. There is the letter A and what looks like a car or a truck.

  ‘Come on, Cassie, we’re leaving now.’

  Cassie looks up; her mother and Aunty Ida have their bags in their hands and stand waiting for her.

  The room is as silent as midnight.

  Her mother’s eyes are red and swollen from crying. Cassie feels a hollow sadness like she could never have imagined.

  The three of them stand alone in a sad dark tunnel, the crowded room lost somewhere in the past. The little crosses from the teacup swirl behind Cassie’s eyes, like a vision of something you looked at for too long before you closed your eyes. Her limbs are soft, her legs can’t hold her up, her hands float like balloons. Her hands are distant from her, not part of her. The crosses spin around her like wild daggers pricking her face and scampering away. Her knees wobble and sickness churns in her stomach. She wants to swat at the crosses, she tries to lift her lost hand …

  ‘Come on, Cass, stop day dreaming. Show me which ride you want to go on,’ her mother speaks again, her hand gentle on her back, and noise fills the room and her mother’s face is just red from the wind.

  ~ 8 ~

  The Chooks

  ‘He’s only seven years old,’ Cassie’s father says.

  The car rumbles through the darkness as the gravel road spits rocks into the windy night. Cassie moves closer to Poppy, trying to cut out the conversation and sleep. The fireworks still boom and sparkle in her head and her body still spins on the show rides.

  ‘Look at it this way,’ Poppy begins again, ‘if he’s wrong and I’m wrong there’ll be feed around and the herd will rebuild. We’ll have both incomes. Diversity’s what they’re all talking about these days.’

  ‘We’ve spent a lot of time and money building that herd.’ Her father taps the steering wheel as he speaks. ‘They’re good stock. We’re starting to get a name for them. We could lose everything.’

  ‘They are good stock. We’ve had a couple of good seasons, prices are up. We’ll get a good price. And we’ll keep the best of the breeders. That young bull and a handful of cows.’

  ‘I just don’t know … chickens?’

  ‘The market for chicken meat’s been growing for years.’

  Her dad laughs softly. ‘I won’t be able to show my face in the pub, breeding chickens!’

  ‘You’ll be able to afford a beer. You might even have to shout everyone if it gets bad, as Alex says.’

  ‘I still say we should wait. Wait and see what happens.’

  ‘Then everyone will be selling, the prices will drop. We act now before everyone else.’

  Her father is quiet for a while. ‘Do you really think Alex has any idea of what he’s talking about? He’s a kid.’

  Poppy doesn’t answer.

  ‘All right, go through it again,’ her father says. Cassie burrows deeper into Poppy’s warmth.

  ‘We sell most of the Herefords; use the cash and a loan to set up these new sheds they build for broilers.’ Poppy’s voice reverberates through his chest.

  ‘I know that bit,’ her father sighs. ‘How do we feed them?’

  ‘The cash flow will be constant. The prices don’t fluctuate so much, demand has increased. You got a bunch of broilers you can sell within
a couple of months. Constant cash flow.

  ‘What about water? They’ll need water.’

  ‘We can use the garden bore. We’ll have to get it salt tested first. Larry says they can’t handle the water too salty, but I think it will be fine. It’s a good bore.’

  ‘Will there be enough water for the garden and the hens?’

  ‘Maybe not.’

  ‘Ida won’t like it.’

  ‘Ida will have to like it.’

  They are quiet for a long time and Cassie drifts to the brink of sleep. Her father’s voice snaps her back to the car. ‘He’s only seven. He’s never even seen a drought. How would he know?’

  ‘Farming’s half hard work and half a gamble on the weather. Alex is a sure thing.’

  ‘Do I have a choice?’

  ‘No, Alex is never wrong, even when he should be. When every-thing says the weather should be one way, and he says another, he’s right. I don’t know how he does it; I don’t care how he does it.’

  ‘We could lose everything.’

  ‘We won’t lose.’

  There are times when Cassie feels things and can’t decide what it is she feels. She thinks it’s important to find the feeling. She searches the words in her head and tries to match them to the physical feeling in her stomach. Sad? Lonely? Scared? Angry? Left out? That’s it. Left out. She should know that one right away.

  ~ 9 ~

  Palms - 1982

  Cassie scuffs her rubber soles across the lino tiles. They make a squeaking noise. She stares at a photo of Princess Di on a magazine cover. The magazine’s a year old already, but that’s fairly new for the dentist’s waiting room. Her mother swears she once found a Women’s Weekly from the Queen’s coronation here, but Cassie doesn’t believe her.

  If she looks at the photo out of the corner of her eye, the bones of the princess’s skeleton push through her skin.

  ‘Don’t.’ Her mother puts her hand on Cassie’s knee.