by Anna George
The driver pressed her lips together, like she was putting on gloss. She eyed something on the dash. She was having a good think. Then she pushed a button and the car clicked. Locked.
‘I’m in a hurry. My son is getting married today.’
‘Oh . . . I, um . . .’ Leah was talking to the brim of the women’s hat. She didn’t want to put her out. In her head Mitch said, Typical, this one wouldn’t put a blanket on you, if you were on fire.
‘Do you not have roadside assistance?’
Leah frowned at the hat, and shook her head.
The woman sighed. ‘Would you like to borrow my telephone?’
‘Um . . .’
Leah shivered as her resolve faded. Tayla was out in this feral weather. Yeah, Mitch had taught her the Survival Rule of Threes. How you could survive for three minutes without air, three days without water, three weeks without food. How shelter was the first thing you looked for . . . The two of them had watched a lot of Bear Grylls. And Tayla could be sensible. Like in the middle of that traffic island on Nepean Highway. Tayla had been sitting on her bum and playing with a caterpillar. Waiting, that cop had supposed, for a break in the traffic. Or for her mum. But, today, in the cold and the wet, how long would she wait?
There was only one way to find out. ‘Okay, yes, thanks a lot.’
Through the window, warily, the lady passed the phone. Leah dialled as fast as she could. The phone connected and rang. She waited, as the lady watched her. When the phone went to message bank, Leah didn’t know what to say. She whispered, trying not to sound too desperate but urgent: ‘I need help, Kel, the car’s out of petrol and . . .’ The lady’s eyes narrowed and Leah didn’t dare whisper the whole truth. ‘And my phone’s flat . . . And I’m . . .’ She looked around – she had no idea where she was.
The lady was pointing to her watch. Before Leah could say goodbye on her message, the lady put out her hand for her phone. ‘If you need a lift,’ she said, ‘I’m going to Mount Eliza. I could drop you in Mornington?’
Passing the phone through the window, Leah’s shoulders sank. Kelly lived on the edge of Mornington, but did she have long enough to go to Kel’s house and come back? That’d take . . . an hour? More?
‘Um . . .’
Tayla’s right, she told herself. She’s safe and happy, under shelter. The woman’s eyebrows went up. Rain was dripping off Leah’s ears.
Leah felt her heart banging. Even if she waited for another car to come by and hitched straight to Flinders, with Cyndi and no car of her own, in this weather . . . how long would that take? How could she search properly, with Cyndi? And what’d happen once she found Tayla? She’d have no car and no money and no phone.
‘What is it to be?’
Leah blinked at the woman’s hat. What would Mitch do? She sighed, as his voice went quiet in her head. What’d Mitch said, on his last call? ‘You got to let people help you!’ She bit another nail to the quick. That was rich coming from him . . . What she needed was her sister, her brother-in-law, their car.
‘That would be great,’ she said softly, ‘thanks very much.’
The woman took something from the front seat and put it into the back: a handbag. Then the car clicked again, as she unlocked it. ‘I have a towel here,’ she said.
That desperate to get moving, Leah was halfway into the four-wheel drive before she remembered her baby girl.
10
Beyond the walls of the house, the storm was thrashing and the wind was moaning. Rain came in waves, heavy as rocks on the roof. Neve tried not to think about the child outside and to concentrate on the task at hand. The change mat was sapphire blue and covered in fine velour. Beautiful for a change mat, if such a thing was possible. While its beauty spoke to her, briefly, it was absolutely lost on her baby. On the marble bench, beneath hot lights, he screamed.
Perhaps he disliked the wind. She suspected he hated being undressed. As much as he hated being dressed. And, it seemed, having a bath. But his next feed wasn’t due for an hour, and she didn’t know what else to do with him. So she stripped him as swiftly as she could, which wasn’t fast. Her fingers stumbled over the tear-shaped buttons at his neck. This top, from her stepmother, was pink and green and covered in teddy bears. Made in France and exquisite. But his head became caught every time he wore it. Either she always missed a button or French babies had small heads.
Ensnared, her baby wailed harder. Flustered, she found the snagged stud and unfastened it. By the time she lifted him naked and damp to her arms, he was crimson and furious.
The tension in his body resonated in hers. She was every bit as frustrated and unsettled. She told herself to ignore the wind. And not to drop him. Was the bath too hot? She rested her wrist on the surface of the water. What was his too hot compared to hers? Another wave of rain pummelled overhead. She was dithering, muttering to herself, when she realised his cries were abating. His gaze was locking onto something behind her. Technically, he couldn’t see beyond sixty centimetres from his face. Or so Hatty and her bamboozling book said. But he was clearly frowning, focusing, following . . . A chill blew across the desert-like surface of her skin. She turned.
At the door stood the girl.
‘Hey there,’ said Neve.
Neve hoped she sounded calmer than she felt. That Jenkins hadn’t found the child, outside, an hour or so ago, had been unsurprising. The abrupt arrival of this second storm had cruelled his lacklustre search. But that the child was inside was something else. Her house, suddenly, had become porous.
The wind sang mournfully as the child dripped. She was changing colour at her extremities; her wispy fingers and rosebud lips were mauve, matching her under-eyes. She tugged at her frayed denim shorts, as if to hide her wet and cold-mottled skin, the rivulets of dirt. One foot was on top of the other; a row of toenails, chipped and long, curled into her toe-tips.
Neve clicked her tongue. With the down-turning of her eyes, the girl’s expression became bashful. But at least Neve could read her, more or less.
‘It’s okay.’ Neve’s grin was large, unhinged. ‘Come on in.’
The girl moved stiffly, like a marionette, her gaze remaining on her feet.
Neve studied the top of the child’s head. The mud-encrusted, crooked centre-part. She could detect the acidic reek of urine. The girl eyed the steaming water and Neve considered her options. In that moment, with her arms full of baby, only so many were available. She spoke before she could stop herself.
‘Would you like a bath too?’
When the child didn’t answer, Neve tossed her baby’s soiled clothes to the tiles. The girl’s eyes stayed on him. On his soft, pink buttocks. His generous curves of flesh. He was clambering on Neve now, trying to climb her but couldn’t get a foothold. His mouth was at her cheek and sucking. Only God knew why.
Neve squirted soap into the bath, barely a third full. The room filled with steam as the scent of orange blossom began to mask the reek of urine.
The girl stood off to one end of the tub. Her focus flicked between the baby and the bathroom: the large, caramel tiles, thick chocolate towels, and colourful bottles of soap. The waterfall effect of the water flowing from a wide, curved silver plate. Awe and wariness were waging a battle across her face. Awe was winning. Neve pivoted the tap. Inviting the girl into the bath wasn’t her brightest idea. She tried not to think about germs, scabies or nits.
‘If you don’t want a bath . . . how about a shower?’
The girl blinked rapidly. She looked from the double shower to the baby to the bathwater to Neve. Her fingers tugged at her wet shorts.
‘I could give those manky clothes a scrub,’ said Neve. After all, she was a washerwoman now. ‘I should be able to find you something else . . .’
The girl’s face darkened, confused or embarrassed; Neve busied herself with the water temperature at the tap. Her baby continued his futile attempts to climb her. The bath was large enough, Neve assured herself, for the two not to touch.
‘
It’s as ready as it’ll ever be,’ she said. ‘Not too hot.’
Neve leant over the side of the tub and her baby squirmed. His neck was resting in the bend of her wrist as she’d been taught in the hospital. He wailed and she adjusted her position. But she was uncomfortable on her knees, bearing the slight weight of him on her forearm. For unknown reasons, he clearly didn’t like it. She was clamping his shoulder and arm tightly, probably too tightly, when the girl stepped behind her. Neve heard the wriggling and shoving of clothes being peeled, and the slap of denim on the tiles. She kept her eyes on her baby as the girl stepped into the other end of the bath and sank beneath the froth.
‘How’s that?’ said Neve.
Again the little mite didn’t answer. But it didn’t matter. Her baby’s gaze lingered on the person sharing his bath. His breathing slowed. His slippery body stilled.
The baby let himself float and, in the warm water, Neve’s arm beneath him relaxed. When he kicked his legs experimentally, the girl moved up the bath to make room. Neve allowed herself a smile. The sweet child. The bath could fit a pair of grown-up fatties. The baby had bubbles on his ears and at the crown of his head. Neve studied him then – his wide, tiny belly, his rosy toes, and full, moist lips. He was like a perfect specimen she’d brought home from the shop. She could appreciate, even admire, his parts, even if they left her unmoved.
When she lowered him further, he waved his limbs breezily. The girl’s gaze did not stray from him.
‘He doesn’t usually like it in here.’
The girl didn’t blink.
Outside, the wind had been replaced by a steady, beating rain.
The girl’s eyes didn’t leave the baby and she didn’t speak. Neve took the chance to study her. Her torso was painfully thin and bleached, but her throat and arms were grey up to her biceps, as if she was wearing a faded flesh t-shirt. Her sudsy hair was matted. Much of the remaining dirt on her skin was grown in: behind her ears, at the creases in her neck.
A bruise on her chest was like a button, round and perfect. It was on her left, in the dish of her collarbone. It could have been a fingerprint, or a cigarette burn. A strange location for an injury. Neve found herself looking for more and she found them – a yellowing hand mark on her right thigh. A bump above her eyebrow, like the tip of a hardboiled egg. The top of one ear was red. Patches of eczema flared behind her knees and elbows. Long scratches pointed to them.
Neve felt a prod of anger. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked, trying to sound natural.
The girl frowned but didn’t answer.
‘If you speak to me,’ Neve said, ‘I can help you.’
For close to ten minutes, Neve held her baby in the water, as he floated and waved his limbs. He and the girl watched each other, silently communing.
Neve shifted her weight from knee to knee. She was about to stand up, when the girl spoke.
‘What’s his . . .?’ The voice was tiny, high, strangled.
Neve wasn’t sure what she’d heard. She had a stab at an answer. ‘Cliff.’
Rarely spoken, the name sounded strange. Formal. Kris would hate it. Neve smiled. The girl scrunched up her nose, her eyes wrinkly. There was something familiar about the crumpled face. Neve wondered if the girl was mimicking her.
‘It’s not good, is it? It was my mother’s dad’s name.’ She paused; no one was around to appreciate that fact. So why had she chosen it? Probably because it wasn’t Ben or Will – Kris’s choices. That midwife, Mary, had been right: names were tricky. ‘What’s your name, by the way?’ she said.
The girl hid behind her bubbly hair.
‘You must have a name?’
The girl lifted her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Grubby,’ she whispered.
Neve uncorked a chortle, surprising them both. Fresh embarrassment flickered across the girl’s face. She busied herself with a scab on her leg. She was retreating, like a sea anemone beneath a clumsy toe.
‘Well,’ said Neve, ‘you’re not grubby any more. Not too much, anyway.’
The girl continued to tug at the red-brown crust on her knee.
Neve sprinkled frothy water onto her baby’s pink chest. It was time to get him out, lest he shrivel like a semi-dried tomato. Usually, during the drying, changing and dressing, he hollered.
She was bracing herself for his exit, when the girl leant forward. Her thin arm reached across the bubbles to stroke Cliff’s forehead. It took Neve a second to glean the girl’s intention. She yanked her baby out of reach, out of the water, and his face erupted into tears. The girl withdrew her hand as if it’d been slapped.
Neve peered into the grey-brown broth beneath the suds. She felt both disgusted and ashamed. Cliff dripped and wriggled and wailed in her hands. The girl slid to the far end of the bath. She tucked her motley knees under her chin and bowed her head. Poised, with her complaining baby above the water, Neve took in the girl, her slight frame and slumped shoulders. Damn it, she’d made a mess of that.
She sighed. ‘My knees can’t take another minute on these tiles.’ She gave a closed-lip smile and stood. She concentrated on drying Cliff on his change mat, until he quietened. She peeked at the girl but her visitor didn’t react.
Neve’s stomach rumbled in the close quiet. Fractionally, the girl lifted her head.
‘Okay. . . .’ Neve paused. ‘I can’t come at Grubby. Can I call you . . . I don’t know . . .’ A single name popped into her head. ‘Jessie?
The child hesitated then nodded. Neve was unsure the girl needed a new name or where she’d pulled it from – her mum? But she liked it. Perhaps the girl did too.
‘Okay Jessie, you hungry?’
When the girl nodded a second time, Neve imagined she could detect a smidgen of forgiveness in the grave eyes. She decided to fix the girl a meal to remember, while her clothes were washing and they waited for the police.
Once she set Cliff in his bassinet, she headed for the laundry and was conscious of the silence. Outside, the storm had passed and the day dripped. She listened for sounds from the bathroom. No splashing. No whimpering; nothing. Her nieces and nephews were loud, and her half-sister Marcia seemed selectively deaf; it was one of the reasons Neve avoided South Australia. In the laundry, she found the door ajar. Hadn’t she relocked it? She couldn’t remember. At least the mystery of the child’s entry-point was solved. Yanking wet clothes from the machine, she wondered what the girl had seen, what memories were playing beneath those wan hazel eyes. She hoped the antics of the night before were the worst of it, despite those bruises.
As the washing machine filled, yet again, her breasts began to tingle.
Her telephone wasn’t on the kitchen bench or in the key drawer. Not for the first time, she regretted disconnecting the landline, years ago. She stood, hesitating by the sink as around her yesterday’s bags of groceries waited, wilting. At least she’d managed to unpack the dairy, but the abandoned groceries and missing phone were stumping her. She’d never been so forgetful or disorganised. If she had more time, she’d worry about it. She began to unload as she hunted. She dug out tins of tomatoes, tuna and corn, pineapple and beans and beetroot; packets of pasta and breakfast cereal and dried mango. In Neve’s short dressing gown, the girl materialised silently at the pantry door. Her chapped mouth slipped open. The pantry was the size of a child’s bedroom. Inside walls of shelves displayed an array of black-lidded jars and stacked goods. There were pickled fruits, marmalade conserves and raspberry jams; biscuits, sweet and savoury; pasta of every shape and size; and rice – brown and white. A week after Cliff was born, late one evening, Neve had filled each container and labelled it. She’d been, for unknown reasons, compelled. There were enough dry goods to last through a winter hibernation. Or two. After a moment, the girl recovered and began to help, her hands reaching into each bag as though into a lucky dip. Neve accelerated, tossing packets, slapping tins. So much stuff; the bags seemed to go on and on. Some of it was bizarre. Men’s deodorant. Blonde hair dye. A six pack of toothbrushes. W
hat had possessed her at Balnarring? Some desire to be bountiful, despite their meagre numbers? Or was it denial of her solo status? Whatever it was, it was something altogether different seen through the child’s magnifying eyes.
The girl worked diligently, not asking where things went.
‘You’re doing a good job there.’
A film of pleasure passed across the child’s features. She gave the baby a tiny wave. From the bouncer, he was watching, fascinated, as if he’d found a peer.
Neve stood, touched, with a can of chickpeas in her hand. Then she saw it in a jar of teabags. Her telephone. Her body flushed with heat. How on earth? She fished it out; she’d missed another call from her girlfriend Flick; beside her, the girl struggled with the last bulbous bag. Dragging it to Neve, she looked up, like a timid dog plumping for a pat. Neve managed a weak smile. ‘More fruit . . . On the bench, please.’ She gestured to a pewter bowl. But the girl didn’t move, her focus on Neve’s telephone, her face slick and white.
‘Please don’t . . .’ she whispered.
‘But people need to know you’re okay . . . Your mum . . . or your dad?’
The girl shook her head, so vehemently her hair whipped her cheeks. Her eyes became beseeching. ‘Please don’t call . . . please . . .’ Fear underlit her eyes.
Neve peered across the kitchen into the airy dimensions of her living room. She pictured the girl’s bony, bruised body in the bath; her distant figure gallivanting alone on the rocks; cowering beside the mother on the hillside. She’d read news stories of children like her. Maltreated, assaulted, neglected.
She considered the sombre face, turned upward. She owed no duty to this girl and had no right or claim. But she felt, inexplicably, as if she did. She was holding the girl’s life in her hands; it felt like a tiny bird, with a hammering heart. And that tiny bird had fallen through the branches, and been forgotten by its woefully negligent mother. Twice.
