Trust Me

by Lesley Pearse

  He checked their room and found nothing missing. He questioned Dulcie about what Pat was wearing and if anyone had come to the house in the last week.

  Bert was the only one who dared voice the possibility that Pat might have left him. ‘She could’ve, Bill! A snake bite don’t knock you out right away, she’d have shouted for help or got back here. You’ve been saying for weeks that she’s been acting weird. I reckon she’s got another bloke and she’s gone off with him.’

  Bill took a threatening step towards him, but Ted intervened.

  ‘You stupid bastard,’ he said to his brother, making sure he was between the two men. ‘We ain’t exactly in the middle of Perth where blokes come and go without being noticed. I always said you think with yer dick not yer head.’

  Jake cooled things down. ‘Pat ain’t the kind to go off with another bloke. We all know that, so shut yer gob, Bert. I reckon she just wandered off for a bit of a walk, went too far and got lost in the dark. Dulcie said she was wearing her old trousers, boots and that jacket with the rips in it. So she weren’t planning to go out dancing!’

  He froze Bert with a say-anything-more-and-I’ll-break-your-neck look. ‘She won’t freeze in that lot, and we’ll soon find her in the morning. Best thing we can do is get our heads down for a bit and be out looking for her as soon as it’s light.’

  It was after eleven when Ted and Bert left to go to their house. Jake went off on his motorbike, but Bill went out again with Sly. Dulcie stood out on the veranda for some time; she could hear Bill calling to Pat and saw the flash of his lantern through the bushes. She felt wicked allowing him to worry when by now Pat might be boarding the train to Adelaide.

  It was after one when Bill finally came back in. Dulcie made him tea and put it in front of him.

  ‘Go to bed now, Bill,’ she said, touching his shoulder. ‘You can’t do anything more tonight.’

  ‘Did she say anything to you?’ he asked, looking beseechingly at her. ‘Women talk about stuff when they’re on their own, don’t they?’

  Dulcie sensed he was beginning to think Pat might have actually walked out on him. Perhaps while he was searching outside he’d come to see how badly he had treated her. Yet the surprising part of it all was that he wasn’t angry, he just looked like a kid who’d been whipped.

  ‘She’s been very quiet for some weeks,’ Dulcie said truthfully. She didn’t understand why she felt sorry for him now, after all the times she’d heard him hitting Pat and calling her foul names. She looked down at his two big fists clenched on the table and could imagine clearly what damage they must have inflicted on his wife. ‘But she didn’t talk about personal things to me, Bill.’

  ‘I treated her so bad sometimes,’ he said, holding his head between his two hands. ‘I wish I hadn’t. When I get her back I’ll get this place fixed up better for her.’

  As Dulcie got into her bed, leaving Bill slumped on the couch in the living-room, she felt a piece of paper between the two sheets. She pulled it out, quickly lit the candle again, and saw it was a brief note from Pat.

  Dear Dulcie, she read. I’ve left. I couldn’t stand it any more. The only thing I feel bad about is leaving you there to face the music. I reckon you won’t find this until you go to bed, by then I’ll be well away, but don’t show it to Bill. I’ve left a note for him in our post-office box. Tomorrow you go down to the Petersons and ask them to ring Sergeant Collins, you can’t stay there without me and I know he’ll come and get you. You’re a good kid, and I hope you’ll get a better deal in your next job. Pat.

  Dulcie tore the note into tiny pieces and burned them one by one with the candle until it was nothing more than a sprinkling of ash. She didn’t know how she felt: there was relief that Pat was safe, that she’d cared enough to worry about Dulcie’s safety, and even delight that now she could get away from here too. But she knew too that when Bill discovered that Pat had left him, all hell would break loose.

  She must have slept eventually because she woke with a start to hear the truck starting up. She pulled back the curtain and saw the first weak rays of daylight in the sky.

  The fire was lit and the kettle boiling when Jake came in. He looked rougher than usual, clearly he hadn’t slept much either. ‘Bill out looking already?’ he said.

  Dulcie nodded. ‘He was out at first light. Are the others with you? Shall I make your breakfast now?’

  ‘They’ve gone off in their truck down towards Salmon Gums again. I’ll take my bike and help Bill look around here. Don’t start breakfast till they all get back.’

  He was gone in a flash, and she heard the sound of his motorbike roar off around the back of the farm.

  She busied herself getting the food ready for the chickens and pigs, trying to keep her mind blank. But she couldn’t. If Bert and Ted picked up the mail while they were in Salmon Gums, Pat’s letter with it, Bill would go mad with anger. Yet if they didn’t collect the mail, how long would Bill go on searching out in the bush before he gave up? If he called the police, how could she go on pretending she knew nothing? What if they got other farmers to join in the search?

  When Jake came back and said he’d called the police from the Petersons’ farm, Dulcie felt sick with anxiety. She imagined them grilling her and eventually getting her to admit what she knew, then blaming her for wasting their time. What if Bill turned on her and hit her?

  But then Bert and Ted arrived back, and by the angry expressions on their faces and the mail in Bert’s hands, she knew it was all going to come out. Bill turned up moments later, wild-eyed and distraught, snatched the letter from their hands and ripped it open.

  ‘The bitch,’ he roared out as he read the letter. ‘She’s bloody well left me!’

  Dulcie did what she always did when a row was brewing in the house, and rushed outside to do the chores. For once she was glad to milk the cows and chop wood, anything was better than going back inside and being drawn into the furore.

  But even outside she could hear Bill’s voice as he ranted and raved at his men and she wondered how long it would be before she was called in for more questioning and whether she dared make a break for it now and run down to the Petersons’ farm.

  She thought when a police car arrived at ten o’clock that her troubles would be over, but the two policemen from Norseman were very different from Sergeant Collins, more like Bill and his cousins in character – brusque, dismissive and arrogant. They made it very easy for her to do nothing more than show them into the house and offer them a cup of tea, as it was clear they thought a sixteen-year-old brought up in an orphanage had to be dense and wouldn’t have been a confidante of a farmer’s wife.

  They stayed around half an hour, during which time Bill’s voice roared out several times in anger and she heard glass breaking which suggested he was now drinking. Dulcie stayed outside, chopping wood for all she was worth, and it was only when the police came out, preparing to leave, that she plucked up her courage and asked them what she was supposed to do now.

  ‘Carry on with your work,’ the foxy-faced one said, as if he was surprised by the question.

  ‘But I can’t stay here alone with Bill,’ Dulcie said, her eyes filling with tears at his harsh tone.

  She saw them exchange glances. ‘Why not?’ the younger, fresh-faced one asked.

  ‘It isn’t right,’ she retorted, wishing she dared ask if they would leave their daughter or young sister here with an angry man who was likely to go out and get rip-roaring drunk. ‘Could you telephone Sergeant Collins in Esperance and tell him what’s happened?’ she asked.

  ‘What’s he to you?’ the foxy-faced one asked.

  ‘He was kind to me in the past when I ran away. He often comes by to bring me books. Please ring him,’ she pleaded.

  ‘Did you know Pat had left Bill?’ the policeman asked brusquely, his eyes boring into hers as if blaming her for a fool’s errand.

  Dulcie shook her head. ‘Please ring Sergeant Collins. I can’t stay here, it’s not safe.’ />
  Perhaps it was the sound of something being hurled against the wall inside the house that made them take her seriously, for the foxy-faced one nodded and told her to keep out of the men’s way.

  It was quite the worst day she had ever had. Bill stayed in the living-room, only coming out now and then to go to the dunny. Ted went off in the truck, but he was soon back, a couple of bottles of whisky in his hands. Yet even though they stayed in the living-room getting drunk together, a malevolent atmosphere seemed to permeate the entire house. Jake disappeared and Dulcie guessed he had enough affection for Pat to be unable to listen to Bill’s drunken raving.

  Even Sly and Prince looked apprehensive, curled up by their kennels out on the veranda. They never came into the house, but then their days were spent out with the men, and they were confused by their master’s voice coming from the living-room.

  Dulcie mucked out the pigs which Pat hadn’t even begun yesterday, she weeded the vegetable garden, and only returned to the house when she knew she must make some bread and something for the men’s supper. Yet all the time she was worrying that Sergeant Collins wouldn’t come, or that if he did he’d say he couldn’t help her. She didn’t know if her savings were enough to get the train to Perth and rent a room until she could find a job there, and besides, she might be picked up by the police there.

  She was just taking a loaf out of the oven when Sergeant Collins rapped on the door, and she had never been so pleased to see anyone. Before either of them could say a word, there was a loud bellow of laughter from the men in the living-room, and Sergeant Collins raised his eyebrows.

  ‘They’re drunk,’ she said with a shrug. ‘I can’t stay here, Mr Collins, by tonight they’ll be like madmen.’

  For just one moment as he looked at her, she thought he was going to tell her to calm down and see how things went, but instead he put one hand on her shoulder. ‘Go and get your things together and wait outside for me. I’ll go and speak to Bill,’ he said in a low voice.

  Once Dulcie had run along to her room, Collins opened the living-room door, and almost recoiled from the smell of unwashed bodies, cigarettes and whisky.

  Bill was sprawled out on the couch, a glass of whisky in his hand, the two red-headed cousins were slumped in chairs, equally drunk. There was another empty bottle on the cigarette ash-strewn floor, the hearth in front of the unlit wood stove littered with dog-ends they’d thrown in that direction.

  ‘I heard about Pat,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry, Bill.’ He felt that he ought to say more, but the words stuck in his throat.

  ‘The bloody bitch walked out on me,’ Bill said, his words so slurred they were almost unintelligible. ‘How could she do that?’

  Ted and Bert were both looking squint-eyed at Collins. He guessed they weren’t so drunk they hadn’t realized he’d come to do something more than to offer his condolences.

  ‘I came about Dulcie,’ he said quickly, seeing no point in beating about the bush. ‘She can’t stay here alone with you lot. It wouldn’t be right. I’ll take her home to my missus for the time being.’

  ‘But who’s going to cook for us?’ Bert asked.

  ‘You’ll have to manage yourselves,’ Collins said. ‘By the smell out in the kitchen she’s already made you something for today.’

  Bill lurched to his feet scowling. ‘She ain’t leaving me now,’ he said angrily. ‘I need her.’

  ‘She’s just a child,’ Collins said firmly, drawing himself up to his full height of five foot eleven, and hoping one of them wouldn’t rush him. ‘You are all drunk, and it isn’t fair to expect her to cope with that, and looking after this place alone.’

  As he looked around at the three men’s belligerent expressions and sensed the menace seeping out of Bill, he had real sympathy for what Pat had put up with for so long. He had no doubt that Dulcie would be in real danger if he didn’t get her out of here now. ‘Don’t even think of trying to stop me,’ he said as he saw Bill lurch towards an empty bottle to use it as a weapon. ‘Or you’ll have far more on your hands than your wife leaving you to cope with.’

  He left then, shutting the door behind him, and hoped that Dulcie was ready.

  She was, waiting nervously out on the veranda, her suitcase in her hand. She had changed the faded dress she’d been wearing earlier to a blue one. It was too short, and tight around her chest, and the blue ribbon in her hair and her short white socks made her look about twelve, not sixteen.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘I’m taking you home with me.’

  As Collins pulled away from the house he heard Bill yell something from the front door, and the sound of breaking glass as he threw the empty bottle at his car. When he glanced sideways at Dulcie he saw she was crying.

  ‘You’re quite safe now,’ he said. ‘I’m taking you home with me. My wife will take care of you.’

  She cried for some little time, and Collins let her, for he could imagine what she’d been through today. The police at Norseman weren’t noted for their gentleness, they had to be tough, their usual customers were the gold miners, whores and other itinerants who ended up in Kalgoorlie. Breaking up fights, two-up games, dealing with drunkenness, theft and prostitution was what they knew, and one little kid caught up in what was no more than a domestic row wouldn’t trouble them. But it did trouble him. He wouldn’t mind betting that most of the whores up there had started out much like Dulcie, nudged into that way of life because they had no one to guide them.

  The saddest thing about it to him was that a girl on the threshold of womanhood should see such ugly things. Would she grow up to think Bill’s behaviour to his wife was normal? If a man treated her marginally better than Bill did Pat, would she imagine she was lucky?

  Dulcie fell asleep on the journey. Her head lolled against the window, her dress had ridden up above her knees, and her hands lay relaxed in her lap. Collins thought he ought to feel pleased she felt safe enough to drop off to sleep, but as he looked down at the many bruises and small scabs on her legs and knees, the calluses on her hands and the broken nails and lack-lustre hair, instead he felt only shame that this should happen to someone so alone in the world.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘You aren’t going anywhere just yet, Dulcie,’ Molly Collins said in answer to Dulcie’s question about finding a new job. ‘Sean and I have decided that you need a little holiday before you even start to think about that. Today I’m going to take you to have your hair cut. After that we’ll take a walk along the beach, then maybe we’ll buy some material so you can make yourself a new dress. That’s enough for one day.’

  Dulcie’s eyes welled up with emotional tears. Since Sergeant Collins brought her to his home three days ago, she had been overwhelmed by his and Molly’s kindness. They considered it a quite ordinary police house, but as it had electricity, a refrigerator and wireless and stood on the corner of Pink Lake Road, just a short walk to the sea-front and shops, Dulcie thought it was the height of luxury.

  Mrs Collins wouldn’t even let her do anything to help her, and she fed her food that Dulcie’d never even seen before. She slept in the bedroom of their daughter who was away at university, surrounded by dolls, teddy bears and pictures of film stars, and yet as she lay in the comfortable bed, Alfie their cat curled up beside her, she kept thinking it was only a matter of time before she would be plunged back somewhere awful again.

  ‘Don’t cry, my dear.’ Mrs Collins came closer and enveloped her in her arms. She was a small, stout lady in her late forties, with a youthful face and gentle brown eyes. ‘You’ve had a miserable time up there with the Masters, but it’s all over now.’

  Dulcie sobbed. It was a strange thing that while she loved the hugs and cuddles Mrs Collins gave so readily they always made her cry even more.

  Mrs Collins tipped up Dulcie’s face to look at her and smiled. ‘Now, come on, wash your face, brush your hair and we’ll go out, get your hair done and buy some dress material. I’ve got a nice pattern I bought to make a couple of dresses
for our Wendy before she went off to Sydney. I thought you’d look real beaut in pink, what do you think?’

  Three weeks later Dulcie was in the kitchen helping Mrs Collins by laying the table for the evening meal when Sergeant Collins came home from work. He ‘cooeed’ from the front door, which Dulcie had come to notice meant he had exciting or interesting news.

  Mrs Collins turned from her position at the stove where she was making gravy, and looked expectant. ‘Want a beer, love?’ she called out. ‘Or can it wait till you’ve told us?’

  He came into the kitchen. ‘Told you what?’ he asked with a wide grin.

  ‘Whatever it is that’s brought you home so perky,’ she laughed.

  ‘I’ve got the perfect job for Dulcie,’ he said. ‘At least I hope she’ll think it is.’

  ‘I’m sure if you think it’s a good one, I’ll love it,’ Dulcie said.

  She had come to trust his and his wife’s judgement in everything. They insisted that they would contact Reverend Mother at St Vincent’s by telephone rather than let Dulcie write a letter which might be ignored. The nun, finding herself speaking to a policeman, who in no uncertain terms pointed out that no inexperienced young girl should ever have been sent to the Masters’ place to work, had little option but to agree that he should now find a suitable position for Dulcie. It was their suggestion too that she should have her hair cut and styled, and that she should make herself some dresses to go with her fashionable new hair-style.

  The Collins’ advice and care had made Dulcie blossom in every way. She had managed to stop tormenting herself about Pat, she had after all found peace now.

  Rested and well fed, Dulcie had put on a little weight, her complexion was almost as smooth now as it had been when she was a child. Her hands were softer and her nails cared for. Yet it was her hair which Dulcie prized most, for in the hands of an experienced hairdresser it looked beautiful. Because of the long-term neglect, several inches had to be cut off, but not in the brutal manner of St Vincent’s. She had what they called a ‘feather cut’, short and bouncy, that brought back the natural wave and enhanced the pure blonde colour. When she looked in the mirror, for the first time in her life she saw a pretty girl staring back, the feathery effect framing her face, emphasizing features she’d never known were dainty until now.