‘Yoohoo, it’s me, Jack. Got the kettle on?’
She opened the flyscreen door and stepped into the dark kitchen; it only had one window, shaded by the back verandah, and Jack didn’t like wasting electricity. The parlour, on the other hand, where they always took their tea, was bathed in morning sunlight exposing all manner of poor housekeeping; dust covered every wooden surface, for as Jack said, what was the point of moving it around.
‘Come on in, Aggie. I’ll make the tea.’
Her eyes adjusted to the dimness. She watched Jack lift a spitting, blackened kettle from the stove and pour boiling water into a dented silver-plated teapot. A tin mug and a cup and saucer sat beside it on a small kitchen table below the window. The table was covered in sheets of newspaper that Jack regularly changed. Newspaper also lined the mantelpiece over the stove upon which sat a row of green metal canisters filled with flour, sugar, arrowroot biscuits, tea and salt, except these sheets had been decoratively trimmed with pinking scissors. It was what his mother had taught him: waste not, want not. This was also why he kept every leftover bit of soap to boil down later, and on a side table behind the back door, rows of condensed milk tins filled with hardened dripping from his Sunday roasts. On hot days they melted and risked turning rancid before they could be re-used but Jack couldn’t bring himself to throw out a baking dish of good fat.
‘I’ll go put these sheets in the parlour,’ she said, leaving Jack to cut thick slabs of the freshly baked bread he always served with morning tea. ‘And I’ve brought over a Peace rose, I thought you might like it for your mum.’
She laid the sheets on the black leather chaise longue under the window—apart from the two armchairs they usually sat in it was the least dusty item in the room. Hands on her hips, she looked around the room. It was overstuffed with Victorian furniture, a legacy from Jack’s mother, but one treasure stood out—a salmon-pink, silk-shaded lamp on a black filigree, cast iron base. It sat upon a dark wooden sideboard, carved with what she once thought were swastikas. This had puzzled her until she’d recently discovered in a library book on Buddhism that they represented universal harmony. What a cruel irony, she mused, that the symbol had been twisted into hate. Who’d chosen to do that, she wondered, and why? The world had changed under that distorted banner. Perhaps Jack would know. ‘I know a little about a lot of things and much about nothing,’ he’d often say to her, laughing.
She looked back at the lamp. Long strings of delicate, coloured glass shards—purples, pinks and blues—dangled from the shade; they sparkled in the sunlight but when the blinds were drawn and they were the only light in the room, their fragile beauty made her want to cry. Every now and then Jack humoured her and pulled down the blind.
‘Tea up, Aggie,’ Jack called out.
‘Thanks, Jack, I’ve been dying for a cuppa,’ she said, returning to the kitchen for her cup of tea and a thick slice of bread and jam.
They took their repast into the parlour and made themselves comfortable on the armchairs.
‘Busy week?’
‘Yes, three readings on Monday.’
‘Three? Hmm.’
‘And I did a stint on Wednesday at the church hall—the church ladies catered for the council meeting. I was on sandwich duty.’
‘What happened to that girl you’ve had coming?’ asked Jack.
‘You mean Lori?’
‘Yes, Lori, Fred’s eldest girl isn’t it? Haven’t seen him since last year’s fair—good bloke, Fred—he helps out in the Rotary doughnut van.’
Jack never missed the annual fair, it was the highlight of his year, a catch-up with old mates; last year was the first time he hadn’t lent a hand cooking potato scallops in the Workers’ Club van. ‘Let some of the younger ones have a go’, he’d told her but she knew he was finding it harder these days to be on his feet for too long.
‘She’s still coming round, in fact, I’m having her over for dinner tonight.’
‘Right.’
‘Teaching her the teacups.’
‘Hmm.’
She changed the subject. ‘Did you read in the paper about the sulphur?’
‘About the smell from the stack? Yes, I did. Been worse since they reopened, even I’ve noticed it.’
‘It’s the first time anyone’s complained though.’
‘Well, the mines are the lifeblood of the town, aren’t they?’
‘Do you think so, Jack?’
‘Not half! Well, maybe not as much nowadays but it’s still a big employer, Aggie.’
‘The mayor’s not happy about the complaints.’
‘No, old Dougie came out fighting, didn’t he?’ Jack chuckled.
She knew he didn’t have much time for Doug Donaldson; he’d had run-ins with him before, when Doug was in the Chamber of Commerce.
‘Business always comes first for Dougie, you don’t bite the hand that feeds ya.’
In the thirties, a teenage Jack and his dad had mined a small show on the flats near Red Hill; they’d dropped the shaft themselves and used a dry-blower to sift for gold, but had barely made enough to live on. When his dad died young, Jack went to work for the Main Roads Board, tarring the roads and, except for the stint in the army, had kept the same job his whole working life. He became a union rep and was held in high regard. But not by Donaldson.
‘I have a feeling it’s not going to blow over, Jack.’
‘Do you now, Aggie?’
‘I do, and I’m wondering how it’s all going to turn out. Things are changing, Jack.’
‘Hmm.’
She began to fade in and out as images projected onto her mind like a film at the local cinema. She saw people marching and familiar faces.
Aggie slowly drifted back from her sensing and noticed Jack had nodded off. She smiled and sat back in her chair and sipped the rest of her tea.
Crash! The kitchen window shook. Lori dropped the casserole. A perfect print of a bird appeared on the window, feathers spread-eagled. She rushed outside and found nothing. Despite the warmth of the early summer evening, she shivered. Papa used to say it was a harbinger of death. She peered into the fading light. Her neighbour’s dog barked and the far-off howl of a train whistle blew over the rooftops. She pulled her thin cardigan closer and hurried back inside. The unbroken Corningware dish sat on the floor, the spilt chicken cacciatore sauce blood red against the white and black squares of linoleum. She took a deep breath. There’s extra sauce in the fridge, it doesn’t matter. She cleaned up the mess and replenished the dish. Her eyes were drawn back to the image. As she peered through the window a now familiar tingling moved over her scalp—there were spirits waiting. Tonight would be different.
Aggie had taught her for months now, introducing her to an array of local people—a medium and several clairvoyants, a crystal ball scryer and a tarot card reader and once, a Turkish woman who read coffee dregs. They’d sat around Aggie’s big kitchen table chatting while she made tea. Later, Aggie would turn off the kitchen light and turn on the tall lamp in the corner, its soft, pink glow emanating from a red globe. So much had happened these past few months, some of which Aggie or one of the others had predicted, or she herself had foreseen as she learnt what Aggie called ‘the craft’. Some predictions she had heeded, others she wished she had.
Like the Maureen incident earlier today, she thought.
Not that it mattered in the end but it could have. Fortunately, Patrick had believed her about the file note in her bag; she’d forgotten all about it, the note having slipped to the bottom, but Maureen had found it when rummaging for the office keys. Patrick’s day had started badly, he later told her; he’d left his own keys at home and had just received another ministerial on the increasing number of Aboriginal children from their region sentenced to juvenile detention in Perth. He’d urgently needed to get into the filing cabinets but she’d been upstairs taking minutes for Adoptions with a ‘Do not disturb’ sign on the door, and the cabinets were still locked. When Maureen had suggested she lo
ok for the keys in Lori’s bag he’d reluctantly agreed and, before finding them in a zipped side pocket, Maureen had pulled out the forgotten file note. Disappointed at the apparent breach of confidentiality, he’d requested that Lori meet with him in his office at the end of the day.
Still on the phone, he’d beckoned her towards a seat. Her heart thumping, she sat opposite him and waited. Embarrassment flushed her face. He hung up the phone, closed the work diary in front of him and leant forward, staring at her, his elbows on the desk. Lori squirmed on the edge of her seat. Surely he’d believe her. I’ve done nothing wrong, she thought, prepared to defend herself, but perhaps, officially, I have. Maureen had certainly intimated as much when, with a tight smile, she’d informed Lori of her discovery.
Here it comes, she thought and despite her resolve to stay calm, the unfairness of it rose inside her. ‘Patrick, I’m sorry, but I found the file note on the floor as I was walking out the door. Everyone had gone home, the files were all locked. I fully intended to file it but …’ He held up his hand. Startled, she stopped.
‘Lori, I trust you completely.’ He held her gaze. A band of warmth expanded around her, between them. ‘But …’ The band snapped. ‘As Maureen reminded me, protocols are protocols.’ He folded his hands in front of him, prayer-like.
Lori stared at him, eyebrows raised. He smiled, the creases at the side of his eyes deepening. ‘And following protocols, we have discussed the matter, and that’ll be the end of it.’ He leant back, looking relieved.
‘Oh, for goodness sake, why couldn’t you have just said that earlier?’ she complained, her face reddening further.
He’d laughed then, quipping, ‘Justice not only needs to be done, it needs to be seen to be done,’ adding, ‘Look, it’s late but would you like to go for a coffee? The Vienna Coffee Lounge should still be open.’
Lori blushed at the memory. She turned away from the smudged window and smiled. Though she’d declined the invitation due to her appointment tonight with Aggie, the outcome had been a surprise. He’d invited her out for dinner. Now she could hardly wait for tomorrow.
And Patrick’s friend, the new district officer, from the Kimberley region, up north—how strange that he should arrive at this time. Everybody had stopped talking when he strode into the tearoom, Patrick beside him.
‘Well, everyone, this is Daniel Jardine, a colleague of mine from my time in the Kimberleys. He’s staying with me while he’s here.’ Patrick turned and smiled at Daniel. Daniel grinned back, all teeth and cheekbones. ‘Daniel will be acting in the vacant district officer’s position until we can get approval to fill it,’ he’d continued. ‘Latest cost-cutting measure is limited vacancies advertised until next financial year.’ Everyone groaned. Lori leapt up and stretched out her hand in welcome. Daniel stared at her, his eyes narrowing, then grinning again, he took her hand in a gentle shake. An energy ran up her arm, jolting her. He dropped her hand. She’d stared back, questioning, but by that time everybody else was out of their seats, tea-break over, welcoming Daniel as they departed.
Her mind buzzed when she thought about Daniel. Their conversations since about their beliefs had been a revelation. His shoulder-length, shiny black hair and high cheekbones, the way he carried himself and his quiet confidence, reminded her of chiefs she’d seen depicted in old American westerns.
Her scalp tingled again. Yes, tonight would be different.
She grabbed a tea-towel from the kitchen drawer and wrapped it around the casserole dish, forming a knot on top for carrying. She picked it up along with her car keys and headed out the front door, leaving the porch light on.
Ten minutes later she pulled up at Aggie’s. Her pulse quickened, she felt dizzy. Take a deep breath, she reminded herself. She loved the excitement of these evenings. Sometimes, in the light of day, it was hard to believe the things that happened, but she knew what she had seen and what she had felt. And things happened in daylight too, just with more subtlety.
Aggie was waiting to welcome her at the door. ‘Come on in, dear. How lovely to see you.’
Aggie kissed her on the cheek. Sweet aromas stole up her nostrils. ‘I can smell stewed apricots, Aggie,’ she said, following her into the kitchen. ‘Are they off your tree?’
‘They are, dear. We’re having apricot pie for sweets. I’ve put some in a bag for you to take home in return for those lovely loquats you gave me last month. Here, give me that casserole and I’ll put it in the oven to keep warm. Have you had a good day?’
She handed over the casserole and sat at the kitchen table, inhaling the spicy perfume of the roses and chatting about her day while Aggie organised dinner. She told Aggie about a memo that had arrived from Head Office instructing them to cull old files and that Ron Smythe, the senior legal officer, had asked her if she’d be willing to work on it over a weekend, just the two of them.
‘Bit of extra money, Aggie,’ she said. Though it wasn’t just that; she welcomed the responsibility.
Aggie turned abruptly and stared at her for a second, nodded, then turned back to the stove.
She also let Aggie know that things were a little cool between her and Maureen and why, and how she was now looking forward to dinner tomorrow night with Patrick.
‘All’s well that ends well, then, Lori,’ Aggie mused as she set the table.
Lori noticed the knowing smile on Aggie’s lips.
After dinner they washed up and shared a pot of tea. Tonight they wouldn’t turn over their cups and practise reading. Tonight she would go into a trance and Aggie would guide her.
Lori turned on the corner lamp and turned off the kitchen light.
Her scalp tightened. Already the energy was changing …
Much later, they shared another cup of tea and talked about the events of the evening. Now she knew her guide.
He looked a bit like Daniel, only not as dark; his skin was bronze and he had a feather in his hair, but he held himself the same way as Daniel. Aggie saw him too, but only Lori heard his name. Which was as it should be, Aggie said.
‘Now that you know who is with you,’ Aggie told her, ‘each time you open up in meditation or do a reading, you can call him in. Remember, when you read for someone it’s not your knowledge you’re sharing, you’re reflecting what the person already knows at another level. You just remind them. Their guide talks to your guide and you hold up the mirror. It’s their knowing, it belongs to them.’
As Aggie spoke, Lori noticed a change in her voice—it took on a depth, a resonance that penetrated her in a new way, impressing parts of her with a different energy. She listened intently.
It was close to midnight before she left. She drove home deep in thought, the warm air blowing softly against her face, one hand on the steering wheel, the other dangling out the window. Despite closing her chakras she still felt floaty. At her driveway, not wanting to wake her neighbours, she turned off the ignition and coasted up the path, softly closing the car door before creeping across the front lawn to the porch. The perfume of her native frangipani hung heavy in the air. She stopped and breathed in its vanilla fragrance, tipping back her head to stare at the sky, the blink of a moon and the dome of stars. A sense of wonder flowed through her at the enormity of the universe, the night’s events, meeting her guide; and at the thought of Patrick. A quiver tickled her spine, flushed her neck and made her laugh. She tiptoed across the porch, turned off the front light and felt her way down the familiar dark passage. At the kitchen door, she switched on the light and took a step in—then drew back. She gasped.
The bird’s imprint shimmered luminous on the window.
Before one year leaves and another arrives, she heard.
Feathers had brought two meanings tonight; here was the second. Someone would die soon.
A mist of red clouded her vision, she staggered. Blood dripping, drip, drip. She reached for the wall and steadied herself. There’s something else they’re telling me. A face formed, faded, then another.
Lori shook them
away, and chose not to see.
CHAPTER TEN
Beyond the town, the bush stretched thin over the rubyhard ground till, towards the horizon, only spinifex stood, markers of the desert edge. Grave markers for some. Newcomers originally, for only the Aborigines knew then where the water was, using that knowledge to walk out into the Sandy Desert, following lines that drew them to ceremonies. More recently, they too had perished as lines became blurred from the blinding light of progress.
If you could call what she had learnt lately from Gerry progress, Aimee thought, as together they bumped over the rough road back to town. Struggling with the centricity of her urban education, she had recently accompanied Gerry on several trips to visit Aboriginal communities. The first was a squalid reserve close to town, sardonically referred to as the Tea Gardens. The next, a Protestant mission near Coolgardie, then several town camps on the fringes and last month to Warburton, a day’s drive north over the harshest country she had ever encountered. Only at Warburton did people seem to have a sense of community.
Today it had been Cundeelee, another mission on an Aboriginal reserve, 180 kilometres east of town. What was it Gerry had just said—‘the road to hell is paved with good intentions’. The two-way radio crackled. Gerry turned it down slightly—they were still an hour from town.
‘So, why are they now moving everyone to Coonana?’ she had asked. They’d been talking about the people who lived at Cundeelee. This morning on the drive out he had told her that some of the people were survivors of Maralinga.
‘Maralinga? Isn’t that where they let off an atom bomb?’
‘Yeh, in the fifties,’ Gerry said. ‘It’s a contaminated area. The British tested their atomic bombs there. The Australian government was involved as well. They sent out Native Patrol officers and Aboriginal trackers to try and remove anyone in the vicinity of the test sites but Jan said a lot of them hid. Jan’s told me stories of people being terrified. They’d never even seen a whitefella before.’
The Secrets We Keep Page 8
