The Lone Child

by Anna George

  Oh Tayla. That shelter you’ve built better be a good one.

  good friday

  5

  After midnight, Neve was up again, robed and socked and half-asleep. Warm air streamed from vents, and every lockable surface was fastened. Beyond the house’s stone walls rain came in gusts. Heavy with fatigue, she moved from bassinet to change mat, from clean nappy to wipes to lotion. Changing and re-dressing and wrapping her baby. She’d recently fed him, so he wasn’t hungry. And now he was dry, she tried again to settle him. But, as she rolled his bassinet to and fro, he bleated, his wails high-pitched and reaching for a crescendo. Shutting her eyes, she tried to block them out.

  Earlier, her brief attempt at sleep had been thwarted by the thunder and a niggling disquiet. She kept imagining the sound of the Holden’s return. The crunch of its wheels and the low growl of its engine. From her bed, she’d imagined it rolling down her street, with its lights off and bumper trailing. To find what? Missing money? Truly? Once, around eleven, between thunder claps, she’d thought she heard the metallic groan of a door. She’d listened, waiting for the sound of footsteps stealing through the stony hole in her wall. A moment later, she’d thought a figure was crouched in the corner of her room.

  In the morning, Good Friday or not, she was calling a stone-mason.

  The only consolation was that the rust bucket had been solid and wasn’t going fast. Hopefully, the police had caught up with them.

  As she shot the cradle across the carpet, her baby’s wails ebbed for no apparent reason. She became conscious of another sound accompanying the weather. At the nursery window, something was rapping like branches or fingernails or claws. Edging to the far side of the room, she raised the blind. In the dripping floor to ceiling glass, she saw only her own reflection – her tousled brunette head, craning forward, the ever-rolling crib. But the rapping kept on. She peered more closely through the pane. Woolly bushes shifted and flicked, in the wake of movement. The surface of her body grew hot.

  Something or someone was out there.

  On the terrace, the fierce cold was a shock. Rain raked her hair across her forehead as she listened. Around her, the balcony was like a pool, white and waiting. It seemed to glisten. Below, her hillside garden was spotlit and brilliant in the wet. Squinting, she scanned its boundaries, its southern wall, where the shed abutted trees and shrubs. Green limbs quivered as the rain lashed their leaves. Inexplicably excited, she craned and listened. Her feet became cold in her socks, as she padded on the stone pavers.

  ‘Go away!’ she yelled. ‘Go away!’

  Seven hours later, dressed and dry, Neve lay on her king-sized bed and stared at the daylight pushing its way into her room. Happy Babies and a spreadsheet on her laptop lay abandoned beside her. The document’s last entry was 8.45 p.m. She’d fed four, no, five times since. That amounted to five hours of suckling, of stillness. Five nappy changes; two and a half hours, at least, of settling. And how much sleep for her? She was too exhausted to work it out. And, now, the sun was rising. So much for feeds at ten, two, six, ten. She tried to draw moisture from her lips. Faintly, her head was throbbing. When she had the energy, she’d write to the childless Hatty Cornwall. Tell her what to do with her foolproof, sure-fire routine. She closed her eyes, as her baby pumped.

  Lately, she’d begun to dread the days as much as the nights. In any given hour, her only objective was survival. His and hers. It was both too much and too little.

  Her baby’s rhythm was slowing; soon, she’d have to be upright. Glancing to the window, she remembered the rapping in the nursery. Had anyone really been there? She fossicked on her table. It took her a moment to find the button and push it. The silver blind rose revealing nothing but the terrace and, beyond it, Western Port, a heaving mass of gruel. Vaguely relieved, she watched the sea. A fishing boat was pushing against the swell, pier-bound; she focused on the resistance of the water, its slap against the bow. She felt as solitary and inert, as buffeted, as that slight runabout.

  She moaned, silently. She couldn’t see herself lasting another three months of this, let alone years. Decades. On. What had she expected? She hadn’t quantified it. Hadn’t researched it. Not the time after the birth. Few of her current friends were mothers; the outliers tended to band together. She hadn’t experienced, first hand, the minutiae. The tedium. The endless washing of hands. She picked at a curl of dry skin on her index finger. The hand washing was dissolving her skin. The more she washed, the more she peeled, the more she picked.

  Why had she done it? Procreate?

  In the stillness, she searched her memories for an answer. It took minutes but then she saw herself, aged around six. She and her parents were taking turns putting on a show. Her mother Charm was the family’s glamorous amateur actor but, that afternoon, Neve was sitting on a dining chair and putting on a show for her mum. She was wearing one of her father’s business shirts and he was kneeling behind her. He had his arms in the shirtsleeves and she had hers hidden. In front, her mother sat, their silent audience of one. ‘Ready?’ said her dad, ducking. With a spoon, blindly, he set about feeding her from a bowl of Weet-Bix. She opened her mouth and extended her tongue, as her dad fed cereal to her forehead, her nose, her chin. By the time the bowl was empty, Neve was covered in soggy cereal and her mother was laughing so much her kohl was running black tears.

  Neve wiped sleep from her eyes. She’d wanted to create that same shape, she supposed. One she’d had for seven short years . . . What had her mother called it? A perfect equilateral triangle. Of love.

  She rose stiffly, with her baby at her chest. All she wanted now was to eat.

  Five minutes later, she carried him, freshly changed and dressed in a nightie, into the kitchen. Bags of groceries made smaller islands around her bench. She wandered through them to the bassinet, which she’d wheeled in; but, belatedly she realised, its tiny sheets were soiled. She put her baby in his bouncer. As she began to strip the linen, two small, black triangles, one on top of the other, appeared on the sheets. She blinked and the star-like shape disappeared. ‘Good grief,’ she said aloud. Then, she finished stripping the small bed, remade it and placed her baby in it.

  With the bundle of bedsheets, she meandered to the laundry. Retrieving last night’s wet batch from the tub, she put the new lot in. She fumbled and the dirtied linen fell. Then, for no particular reason, she paused at the laundry window to glimpse the ashen sky beyond the trees. Her gaze dropped and she gasped. One of the timber seats that dotted the garden was flush against the house, beneath the window. Drag marks were plain in the nearby soil. She felt a tingle of fear. She unlocked and relocked the laundry door. Then lurched from the laundry to the nursery, from her room to the guest room, the living room and kitchen. Testing windows. External doors. Every possible entry point was intact; nothing else seemed out of place, but she was unsatisfied. A person had been on her property. Perhaps still was.

  Back in the living room, double-checking her baby, she saw that his nightie had worked its way up and he was tugging at his new nappy. His arms were jerking above the basket’s side and then the nappy itself came off. She muttered to herself. That wasn’t in the book. At least, not in the ‘Eight Weeks’ section. That he was a genius already was no consolation. Soon, his urine would flare like a tiny geyser.

  She slumped onto the bench, as another tiny black triangle danced in the corner of her eye. She clamped her eyes shut and fought a yawn. What to do first: change him or check downstairs? The decision was beyond her. She longed to split herself in two.

  An image of Kris floated across her mind. This horrendous situation was his doing. He’d inspired her and conjured a life for them, together. It’d be ‘the most wondrous thing in the world,’ he’d said. He told her she’d be a natural. That they’d do it together, share the load, equal partners in child-raising. She could work; he could work. He’d have her back; she’d have his. With great enthusiasm, he sprouted those persuasive clichés, before becoming one himself and leaving
her holding the baby. Weakness, she realised, was something she’d come to despise.

  She stared at her baby in his crib. Tried to feel something, other than responsibility and fear, exhausted and vaguely trapped.

  When she was pregnant, she’d secretly hoped her mother’s intuition would grow with the fetus. That it would be fully formed by the time the baby came. Similarly, that surge in love. The unconditional kind, much lauded, which, all too briefly, her mother had given her. But no. She hadn’t enjoyed being pregnant; feeling something move within her, something thriving, which wasn’t her, had been surreal, almost unpleasant. At times, as much as she’d celebrated her baby’s milestones, she’d felt invaded. Her early, all-day morning sickness hadn’t helped.

  Ashamed, she’d kept these feelings to herself. She shied away from her friends. Told no one that now the tiny invader was out he was as demanding as a prince.

  In the quiet, vast house, the fridge vibrated and the baby ignored her stare. A bowl of two-minute noodles lay beside her on the bench. Perhaps last night’s. Fuck it. The lower level could wait. Her baby could wait. She stabbed the noodles with a fork and ate. The food missed her mouth, twice.

  Some people, she’d heard, had mothers. Their babies had grandmothers. Who baked. Babysat. Counselled. Even in the middle of the night, they had help. Support. Today, alone with a possible trespasser and a mountain of washing, cold noodles and a half-naked baby, that simple fact infuriated her.

  Her mother would have been an adoring and available grandmother. She was certain. Her mother had been her whole world: champion, inspiration, carer. But the last time she’d seen her mother, Neve was seven, at the school gate. It was a sunny, cool autumn day. Her mother had kissed her forehead. ‘Stay safe, chicken,’ she’d whispered. Neve hadn’t heard her mother say that before. It struck her as funny. Not funny ha-ha. She’d thought her mother was off to work. Her mother and father worked together in the city; her father had begun his career as a teenager, labouring at the port, and saw an opportunity in warehouses. He ended up building them and, later, shopping centres. Her mother handled the money. ‘He’s done it from scratch,’ her mother liked to say. ‘If Sam can do it, anyone can.’ It turned out that day, of course, Charm wasn’t off to work. She was going for a drive. And a swim.

  Six and a half hours later, Neve was standing, with her bag on her back, outside her classroom. In her hands was an egg carton that she’d made into a castle. Her mother was late. Five minutes. Then ten. When it was 3.50, Neve’s teacher asked her to sit in the office while they made a call. Neve sat, wondering where her mum could be. Often, Charm Ayres was the dashing early one; the one who led the charge through the door; the one who lingered chatting, with mums and daughters, until the last child had gone in the afternoon. Her mother was the one who baked each Sunday so Neve’s lunch box was overflowing with banana muffins and chocolate brownies; who ironed her white, frilly socks and blue silk hair ribbons. Who kept everything Neve made at school, except the really big cardboard constructions. The one who called her the ‘mini architect’.

  The woman in the office was talking to someone on the phone. As she listened, the woman’s expression was wiped away and a new, strange face looked at Neve. A face with eyes that didn’t blink and skin that didn’t move. It looked at Neve, then looked away. It scared Neve, that face that couldn’t move and wouldn’t look at her. The longer she sat, waiting, the more scared she felt. Soon other people in the office were looking at her funny. As if they wanted to hug her but she was on fire.

  Finally, the principal asked her to come in. Neve picked up her school bag and her castle and sat on the big chair. She felt as though she was in trouble. Twice Jason King had been to the principal’s office – for ‘talking back’. But this was worse. The principal said Neve’s father was coming. Then the principal put her hand on Neve’s shoulder and kept it there. Neve felt that hand grow hotter and hotter. She didn’t like the feel of that hand. The principal was looking out of the window. The sun, it seemed to Neve, was runny: watery. The principal said, ‘See that bird?’ But Neve couldn’t. She was too small or the bird was too high.

  When her dad arrived, he was wearing sunglasses though it wasn’t sunny any more. It took Neve a moment to see the tears dripping off his nose. And that his face was bent. He was trying to stop crying but it wasn’t working. Neve had seen her father weep only once before, when Pop died. But that was nothing like this. His whole body was shuddering. She felt embarrassed for him, and slightly repulsed. But, before he said a word, she was crying silently too.

  Her eyes filled. What was wrong with her? That was thirty-two years ago. A year less than the age her mother had been . . . and she was a grown up now: independent and self-sufficient. Wasn’t she? She needed to get a grip. But her memories were coming quick and fast, as if she’d been unplugged. As a child, she’d been complimented often on her stoicism. Called her father’s ‘little rock’. She tilted her head to hold the tears in. And abandoned her noodles for a second time. She stared back at her baby in his bassinet. Had he done this? Unearthed these feelings in her? And if so, why? Why now? By way of answer, he wee’d in a perfect arc. To her dismay, her tears spilt. Overwhelmed, she turned from him to peer out to the clouds. In that moment, she couldn’t have cared less if a trespasser had broken in and was reading a book on design downstairs.

  Outside, the great white, shimmering expanse of the balcony held nothing but the sky. Layered and dense and grey. And then Neve saw her. Yesterday’s little girl creeping across the concrete railing.

  The child was on the far side of the balcony parapet heading towards its centre. She was projected out, eight metres from the ground. Barefoot, in yesterday’s grimy shorts and t-shirt. Neve brushed tears from her cheeks and blinked, as if she couldn’t trust her eyes.

  The girl’s bony feet were moving unsteadily on the flat, white surface. The child seemed unable to trust her footing, though the parapet was 20 centimetres wide. She turned the corner and headed slowly back towards the side of the hill. When she reached the end of the ledge, the girl cast a furtive glance over her shoulder, then scampered down and into the banksia shrubs.

  Neve burst off the kitchen bench, as if she’d been stung. She ran to the sliding doors, flung one open and, bumping into the doorframe, plunged after the child. She thrust herself into her soaked garden. Prickly leaves scratched her knees and the frosty air clutched at her chest. She could hear her own urgent breathing and saw it puff in the air around her. She peered through the sodden bushes and up to the roadside. Two birds, brown and plump, scattered. But that was it. No preschooler strays. No foul-mouthed bogans. No ugly cars. She wanted to shout. To scream. Damn you people! She’s on her own, again!

  She crawled and searched, until her teeth were chattering. Then she tottered inside for her phone.

  6

  When Leah opened her eyes, she was lying across the Holden’s front seats. Her feet were getting wet, thanks to the window stuck open, and the rain was heavy. Her right ear throbbed and her head was spinning, worse than any hangover. It took her a moment to remember . . . Tayla! She propped up on an elbow. As far as she could see were paddocks and wire fences, getting soaked. And a long and empty road.

  Leah groaned. Her five-year-old had been out, overnight, in this! Tayla was a tough nut, but by now even she’d be scared. Leah thought of that grumpy cop and his nose hair. If the Department got wind of this, they’d take the kids for sure. Sick with shame, she made a promise to herself: do whatever it took to prevent that.

  She waited to see the pulse in her baby girl’s neck before retucking the blanket and climbing out of the car. Hurrying onto the road, she swallowed a gulp of something gross from her gut. She hadn’t felt this awful before: this was worse than the flu. On the broken white line, she looked one way, then the other, through the rain. No one. Her nose began to run in a burst, like a shonky tap and she wiped it on her sleeve. When she sniffed, something crackled in her head, real loud. Or maybe the noise
was out of her head. She staggered towards Flinders; with stiff legs, like someone on a train. She stopped, put her hands on her hips. She knew it was Good Friday, but where were the farmers? And the other workers?

  Shame mixed with bile at the back of her throat. She tried not to think of the last time she’d spoken to Tayla; the kid had been dripping wet, walking up from the beach. Leah had tried not to lose her cool but she was in the middle of the clean. She’d only come out to check on the kids in the car. And Mitch used to be better at this stuff than she was. He’d had more patience. That Mitch was gone.

  ‘You stupid, stupid girl,’ she’d said, under her breath.

  Up on the road, she’d taken a swing at Tayla’s legs. Tayla had flown a metre and landed hard on the grass. Leah had sworn out loud. She’d had to remind herself, like Mitch used to, the girl was only five. She’d had to remind herself, too, she’d only hit Tayla three times in her life. But two of those times were in the last week.

  After that smack, truth be told, she didn’t take a whole lot of notice of Tayla.

  She hated to think what the Department would make of that.

  7

  Neve was relieved to hear a man’s clear, polite voice on her intercom. It was Senior Constable Craig Jenkins from Rosebud. She buzzed him in. As her gate clicked open, she glanced down the long, bowling-alley hallway to the nursery. Her arm was hurting from rocking her baby, and he’d only that minute gone down. She waited, with her ceiling-high front door ajar.

  Senior Constable Jenkins was a squat, fair man with a large, hooked nose and thick eyebrows. He could have been created by a political cartoonist – his nose too big, his eyebrows too bushy.