The Lone Child

by Anna George

  ‘She can’t have gone far,’ he said, ‘what with the baby. She’s got her hands full.’

  Sal tried to match the man’s intense gaze. The man wrapped a spindly arm around his torso, while the other hand clasped his mouth. His lips were thick, like a split sausage. He was silent for almost a minute.

  ‘Thank you.’ He winced, as though he’d stubbed his toe, or left something at home. ‘We’ll head into town then swing back.’

  It was then, with regret, that Sal noticed the ears. Soft, fleshy, large.

  25

  Neve planted Jessie and the pram by a bench and watched the police car park. Here was her chance. She could turn the girl in immediately. The brake lights on the police car disengaged. Soon, the doors would open. Jessie hadn’t noticed the car . . . yet. Neve tried to see three steps ahead. Jessie might try to run, there might be a scene. Neve herself could even be in trouble. Trouble she couldn’t talk away on the footpath, with Cliff? Possibly. Was it worth the risk? A male policeman climbed out of the driver’s seat. She recognized him instantly. His squat frame, fair hair, large nose. No.

  She considered the steep steps leading into the general store, and the large, sandy wheels of her sinuous pram. A nearby park bench on the footpath. Alongside it, two grey-haired hobby farmers chatted about cattle. She sighed. Motherhood was an endless succession of risks and calculations.

  Parking the pram by the bench, she whispered: ‘Don’t move and don’t talk to anyone.’ Pretend these two are your grandparents. She trotted up and into the store.

  When she returned with fresh supplies, including packets of underwear and night-time nappies, a bag of glittery Easter eggs and a croissant for Jessie, the girl was holding onto the pram tightly and eyeing the park across the road. She didn’t notice Neve’s new black cap or sunglasses. Next to Jessie, a childless couple, in Converse trainers, was anxiously regarding the pram as they tethered their dog. The hobby farmers were still chatting. None of them acknowledged her. Or greeted her. Or communicated in any obvious way. But, as she reappeared, she felt the hobby farmers relax. Ah, Mum’s back. While the Converse couple, inexplicably agitated, pursed their lips. Perhaps she’d been gone too long.

  Commandeering the pram, Neve ignored the mute criticism and noted that the police car wasn’t occupied. She wondered where the Senior Constable was. Ducking around the corner for a cigarette? Restocking lozenges? Either way, it was time to head home. Surely by now Kris’d be gone and she could drive to Rosebud. There, she could hand the girl over, calmly, kindly. Privately. To someone professional and discreet. To someone without an agenda. She could even wait with the girl, until suitable accommodation was found. Resolved, Neve took two paces before she glimpsed the familiar Subaru reverse-parking. She recognised its roof racks, its numberplates, if not its driver. Both front seats were occupied, a big dog in its rear. She could see the back of a female head in the driver’s seat, his close-cropped skull in the passenger’s. She stopped, as if ensnared. In a moment, they would be out. Dog and all. Despite herself – and the proximity of those police – she hesitated, wanting to catch a glimpse – in the flesh – of the fickle, apparently fragile woman who had preceded and then usurped her. What she saw was a pleasant, freckled face, smiling and warm. Loose auburn curls, large, light blue eyes.

  Flustered, Neve made herself look away, then turned about and marched up the hill towards another run of antique stores and cafes. Camouflaged, she hoped, by the unfamiliar pram and the presence of a preschooler, she cast about the shopping strip for inspiration.

  Nibbling her breakfast, Jessie was still watching the antics at the park across the road. There, two dozen children were running and climbing, squealing and swinging on the red wooden equipment. Rings of parents sipped from takeaway coffee cups and made small talk with varying degrees of commitment. Neve glimpsed two other sculptural prams like her own. The odd adult chased a toddler or tickled a darting child. Somewhere someone was crying. Somewhere else a bell was being throttled. Two older boys were shooting hoops at the basketball ring, as a younger girl circled on a bike, propped up by training wheels. Everyone was completely preoccupied with themselves. And that, thought Neve, was exactly what they both needed. Not Kris and a scene, or the police and a scene. Something active, lively, vivifying. Something you wouldn’t associate with a newborn. Or a runaway . . . Somewhere the childless and the police, hopefully, would avoid.

  26

  Fully dressed on her hospital bed, Leah waited, trying not to worry. But it was hard. Whenever she closed her eyes, she saw the same images: Mitch wading, Kelly made-up, Tayla dripping. Then, in a fraction of a second, the images changed and Mitch was in their bed at Bridge Street. His face was soft and creased with sleep but his hair was matted. She wanted to hold him but wasn’t game. He swung his legs out from under the doona. His leg hair was thick and blond.

  ‘I had that dream again,’ he said. ‘The one where everyone’s surfing and I can’t get to the water.’ He rolled his eyes.

  ‘I have to tell you something . . .’ she said. She was wearing a hospital gown but he didn’t notice.

  ‘The surf was cranking too.’ With his little finger, he itched inside his ear.

  ‘Mitch, it’s about Tayla . . .’

  ‘What’ve you done?’ He gestured to something in her hands.

  Confused, she looked at the package. ‘Oh . . . this . . . is an African wild dog . . .’

  He shook his head, with a miserable half laugh. ‘You spoil those fucken kids.’

  Do I?

  It was true, she’d saved for that dog, since before the factory closed. And it wasn’t cheap. Toy African wild dogs were as rare as the real thing.

  ‘Mitch, I —’

  ‘You don’t give me presents.’

  Naked in front of her, he pouted. His muscles seemed smaller or maybe he was shrinking. Then a surf board and two model helicopters appeared. The ones he’d bought, in the months before he left. She couldn’t bear the sight of them. She thought of the gas and electricity bills that’d arrived the week he’d gone too. That pop of anger gave her courage: ‘I drove off on Tayla . . .’

  ‘You what?’ He was looking at her reflection and his, in the mirrored door of Gran’s wardrobe.

  ‘I left her behind.’

  ‘Who does that?’ he said, yelling at the mirror. ‘Who leaves their children behind? You got fucken rocks in your head?’

  He stood in his own dark cloud, sulking and glaring. ‘You piece of shit.’

  In their ten years together, he’d hardly ever been mean. But that person, the one he’d become, had been inside him, waiting for the right conditions. Turned out, it’d taken about eight weeks.

  ‘I’m glad you’re on the Gold Coast,’ she said.

  ‘You better go get her,’ he sneered. ‘Or it’ll cost you.’

  In her daydream, flustered, she yanked the wardrobe door – intending to get in and away from him. But the closet was already occupied. Inside Tayla was hanging from the rail, limp, like an old coat.

  27

  Neve positioned the quiet pram by an enormous ghost gum tree. She hadn’t been to a park since early primary school. Nearby adults in jackets and scarves sat at picnic settings, while across the lawn, by the curb, cafe-bound drivers locked their cars. Neve prowled around the tanbark, half-expecting Jenkins or Kris to charge from the general store. With a yawn, she peered across the road, and wondered how she’d explain Jessie’s presence. What could she say that Kris, or Jenkins, would believe? The truth being, she realised, as unlikely as anything else.

  With Cliff asleep, she tried to focus on the microcosm around her. In the park, so far, thankfully, no one was interested in Jessie or her baby or her. She and the children had become part of life’s scaffolding, walked around. When Jessie’s pasty face scrunched up at her, Neve’s cheeks grew hot. However wrecked she looked, this child looked worse. Far worse. She felt guilty by association, as if the child’s condition was her doing – even if no one had notice
d it. Yet. As if she would let a child roam about in socks, and ill-fitting clothes, with a dead front tooth and purple undereyes. I found her like this, she wanted to say, when asked.

  Jessie continued to stand, lamblike, in the midst of mums and dads negotiating their progeny. Soon her inactivity would render them conspicuous. Neve weighed their options. Stay. Go. Integrate. Distance. She tried to see across the road, back towards the general store. The Subaru and the police car hadn’t budged.

  ‘Is that a school?’ whispered Jessie, pointing beyond the basketball half-court.

  Behind a wire fence, a modest building was decked out in flags and hanging plants and playing equipment. In pride of place, a child-size papier-mâché egg, the colours of the rainbow, sat in the middle of a bricked courtyard.

  Neve bent to Jessie’s height. ‘It’s a kindergarten,’ she said.

  The awe on the girl’s face was so pure, Neve had to look away. It was a humble, local kindergarten, nothing like the superbly designed temples of learning and play conceived by her peers and frequented by her young nieces – and probably half of the children at the park.

  Another mother appeared then, accompanied by an older woman, in matching brown ugg boots; their faces bore the same smooth planes. Between the women were two girls, twins, aged around eight. Neve felt a pang of envy; never would she share a park bench with her mother to watch Cliff play. Enjoying the simple pleasure of three generations together. She found herself staring as the two girls broke free and bolted for a green ladder. Tanbark sprayed. The energy of the two was furious and stark.

  Neve said, ‘Don’t you want to go on the slide?’

  Jessie moved her head, a minuscule gesture conveying much.

  ‘What about that? It looks like fun.’ A climbing wall of chains jangled 3 metres away.

  Jessie peeked at the noisy equipment. Her thin lips pursed, another eloquent nope. Stealthily, she watched the two girls race across the monkey bars.

  ‘You can do that. I’ll help you up.’

  Neve sidled towards her, ready to cajole. But Jessie sank to a crouch and stroked the earth, as though half-heartedly searching for worms. On the monkey bars, the two girls were now sitting, watching. Their mother, 5 metres away, was mid-conversation: ‘. . . not another afternoon of dress-ups . . .’

  The grandmother sipped from her steaming Styrofoam cup, her face stern: ‘I mean to say, it’s not as if you have six . . .’

  Jessie began to cough, a rasping ruckus.

  The girls looked from Neve to Jessie. Their faces registered bafflement. Or was it fear? Disgust? Ridicule? Generally Neve was poorly conversant in the language of children’s faces. It could have been the girls were reacting to the coughing, or to the socks. The muddy under-soles. The ill-fitting clothes and wasted looks. Neve could have sworn that one of them sniggered.

  Looking back, Neve saw Kris standing alongside his station wagon. A takeaway coffee in his hand. His focus? On the park or on the two police officers striding towards him. She shut her eyes. Keep walking Jenkins and go, she thought. All of you.

  A second later, the two girls burst into laughter. Nasty, hysterical peals. When Jessie bowed her head, Neve could feel the adrenalin hit. The impulse to fight or fly. She planted her feet into the tanbark and tried to lock eyes with the mother.

  Jessie’s face was a blank sheet as she slunk behind the huge gum tree.

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Neve, more firmly than she felt.

  ‘Why are you talking to that?’ called one of the twin girls, gesturing to Jessie by the tree. The other one jumped from the monkey bars, ran to have a look then scampered away. A great new game: laughing at the timid child in the funny clothes.

  Neve lunged towards the nearest midget witch, spying from behind a slide, and growled. With a squawk, the girl bolted into a nearby red tunnel.

  The mother’s blue eyes remained locked on her companion. Her black eyeliner was harsh against the chips of blue – another fashion faux paus along with those ugg boots. Neve brushed fine bark from her leggings. She took a breath. A few well-chosen words should do it. Don’t point. Don’t mock. Jessie sneaked to the pram and hid.

  Around Neve, other parents glanced from her to the mother, then continued chatting or stroking their telephones. A roar came from inside the tunnel and the second girl darted in. More nasty laughter ensued. Neve waited for a reaction, an acknowledgement, from the mother of the bitchy progeny. Nothing. So much for the camaraderie of mothers. Or parenting’s common code.

  ‘Can we go now?’ whispered Jessie, scratching her inner arms again.

  Hesitating, Neve tried to wipe the anger from her face. What hope did we have, she thought, without common decency? ‘In a tick.’

  Jessie sank onto her haunches and buried her face.

  From the tunnel, the girls continued to poke their heads out, laugh and squeal. The mother and grandmother in their unfortunate footwear weaselled away to exchange words by the basketball hoop.

  Neve bent to Jessie, and saw her uncertainty and fear. She lifted a hand to stroke the girl’s cheek. But didn’t. She flushed with indignation. What would Charm have done? Scold the girls? Befriend the mother? To her dismay, she couldn’t remember. She had a moment’s panic. She felt chronically ill-equipped and angry. Again.

  ‘Okay, let’s get out of here.’

  She peered across to the parked cars by the store. A mixture of utilities and luxury four-wheel drives. A few decade-old lemons, none of which was familiar. And not a single police car.

  28

  Neve wrestled the pram over tree roots and wet grass, making Cliff bounce like a pellet in his pram. On the open road, walking fast, Neve was as angry as Jessie was docile. The faster Neve walked, the quieter Jessie seemed, the more Neve’s blame extended from those dreadful girls and their wilfully blind mother to Jessie’s negligent parents. What had they done to this child? Neve longed to be home and away from those unknowable strangers, away from Kris and the fickle reach of the law. There, insulated, they would read Snowy, the Circus Pony, flip more pancakes, draw infinite stick figures. Forget them. And the girl would find her voice again.

  But the township was, if anything, getting busier and they had to manoeuvre around countless dithering families. They passed the final crammed shop on the strip. Bespoke homewares and designer clothes, large and small. The very things a semi-rural township needed. Neve slammed the pram to a halt and shoved on its brake. The crowds and their casual judgements were getting to her, but she had one more thing to do. She considered the child’s bowed neck and skinny legs. Those ancient jeans and muddy socks.

  ‘Give me a minute,’ she said.

  Fortunately, her road along the clifftop was deserted. There wasn’t a single parked car in Spindrift Avenue, not even Sal’s ute. Presumably she’d seen the last of Kris, for another three months or so, at least. She adjusted the two heavy bags cutting into her hands, and from within the pram Cliff whimpered. She picked up her pace and the girl did too, like her tiny double. In the undergrowth, an animal hopped, its tuft of tail dancing. A rabbit. She gestured to Jessie but the child missed it. The girl had withdrawn further since the park, had shown no interest in the shopping bags, hadn’t pestered once for anything. Neve had never known a child so lacking in wants. Her nieces were incessant scammers: ‘Can I have an ice cream?’ ‘I want a lollipop.’ ‘Daddy said I could . . .’

  If Jessie’s meekness was a tactic, it was working. The girl was endearing herself, exponentially. But Neve suspected it wasn’t strategic. Rather, Jessie had already learnt the futility of asking. While Neve detested being pestered, not being pestered was far worse.

  En route, she’d tried to soothe the girl. ‘Mean people are usually sad on the inside,’ she’d said. ‘Happy people don’t behave like that.’ At least that had been her experience at high school, when she’d sat on the toilet-lid at lunch and read, as girls taunted her through the stall door. But Jessie didn’t seem to get it and Neve had reached the limits of her insight
. It hadn’t helped that the mini monsters had been plainly gleeful.

  As Neve crossed into her property, she slowed and the tension left her shoulders. She admired the wall delineating outside from in; despite recent events, it still separated risk from safety; and, despite its incomplete midsection, the intricate stonework was a thing of beauty. The layered stone was simple and uniform but textured and natural. She’d rarely felt so grateful to be home.

  She closed the gate.

  On the porch, she paused. A top-heavy succulent had moved; the ground was scuffed, as if the pot had fallen, been straightened. A magnolia flower had been plucked and sat on the stone, a lone white head . . . alongside a parcel.

  The parcel was light and cool, almost weightless. The size of a box of tissues. The wrapping was dove-egg blue with tiny, white polka dots. Blue ribbon criss-crossed the dots. Another baby gift. She recognized the wholesome cheer but how had the gift found them? Kris? Warily, she examined the perfect folds, the voluptuousness of the paper, as something tickled her fingertips. She flicked her hand. Half a dozen ants scurried across her palm. She turned the parcel. Hundreds of ants swarmed across the pale, blue paper. She dropped the box and it landed with a slap.

  On the stone paver, the box seemed to move. Jessie slunk to her side, as Neve bopped the parcel with her fist and the ants sprang from the force. Neve prompted Jessie with a nod then, together, they tore at the paper.

  Inside the parcel was a dove-egg blue box containing a handcrafted chocolate bunny. The confection was visible through a clear plastic window. It was 20 centimetres high, with its ears up and its paws curved. But only the tips of its ears and the curves of its paws were visible. The rest of it was an oozing creamy mass, as its soft insides leaked out. The ants had penetrated the box’s seal, made their way through the glue. They were so tiny but so able, impressively determined. And gross. Beneath the miniature black bodies, on the top right hand corner of the box, Neve could make out a square card. Black pen. Familiar penmanship. It was from him, of course. And for her. Surely he knew babies didn’t eat chocolate. But beneath the tiny legs, fleetingly, she could make out ‘For Cli—’ and ‘love Da—’.