Listen.
First you hear the whirr, then you see the sheen above you, green, blue, a gold-brown colour like the spices she keeps in the jars beside the flour barrel, the white tufts on the throat. Now it’s singing prrr prrr prrr wop-it wop-it.
Clem, there’s Tui. Pansy beside him, pointing upwards.
He should have answered her letters. Should have written back when she sent the photograph of her and the girl: ‘I’ve called her Lena. Lena Margaret.’
It’s a queer sort of name is Lena but Margaret is Mother’s name. Maggie. Mags. His dad’s hand smoothing down over his mother’s hip and her thigh, when he thought no one was looking. He’d crumpled the letter in his hand, looked again at the picture, crushed that up as well.
Nine nine nine nine. The darkness clogging up his mouth and his eyes and his ears he’s deaf and he’s blind can’t breathe can’t breathe he’s going to die down here and it’s not someone else.
I’ve joined up.
He sees Mother stand, her hand clutching at her throat as always when the news is bad, and he hears his father whack the flat of his hand down on the table. ‘My God, boy, and what next will you be telling us? First Pansy and now this?’
‘It’s m-my . . . my duty.’ His voice is not the way he meant it to come out and he hears it like a boy’s, querulous, high-pitched and sulky.
‘You want to do your duty, eh? Well, and haven’t I heard everything now? By God, haven’t you learned anything in this house? My son going off to fight a capitalist war? Is this what me and your mother brought you up to be? Cannon-fodder?’
And Mother’s voice rising up clear and strong above his father’s, as if by saying what she knows is right she can turn it back and she can keep him there with her. ‘You’re a miner, Clem. You don’t have to go.’
And he didn’t want to go, not to leave them all, and if he could’ve taken it back he would have but he blustered his way through the words and the fear in Mother’s eyes and the anguish in Dad’s. ‘I’m going and let that be an end to it.’
One. One. Should’ve written back. Should’ve told her. The baby looks bonny. You look beautiful, Pansy.
He hears the snuffles and gurgles his chest is making. He’s slipping in and out, in and out of the dark. Cheerio. Cheerio. Cheerio old son. Otto’s slipped out of trouble again. Otto on the island, him dying down here in the hole.
One one one. He’s going to have to give it up, he can’t keep his eyes open, he can’t keep up the breathing, he’s drifting, sliding. He’s the boy running. He’s the boy calling. He’s the boy beside the pretty girl pointing upwards. It’s Tui, Clem. He’s the boy looking down the path through the dripping ferns and the trees and the flaxes. He’s the boy in the kitchen with a bed ready for him and the promise of bread in the morning. All serene. All serene. Mother? Mother? He’s the boy crawling up the rock, the boy leaping out and going down into the dark, his ears and nose and mouth filling up with water.
Should’ve written. Should’ve told her. The little one. The two of them. Bonny.
The boy is climbing down over the rocks. He stands for a moment looking and he’s jumping and he feels the hit and bursting cold of the water, oh, and now he’s down in it, way down in it and it’s in his ears and his mouth and up his nose. And there he goes exploding up out of it shaking his head shaking the water out of his ears his hair spurting it out his mouth.
There’s water in his mouth and he’s gasping, floundering, choking. He’s lost in the dark and the water and the fierce light shining into his eyes.
Part Four
So fast the days draw in and are over,
So early the bees are gone from the clover —
Today, tomorrow —
And nights are dark, as cold as sorrow.
‘Autumn, 1914’, Mary Webb
30
Swim here with me.
If there was blame, it’s her has to take it. It was her said it first.
Swim here with me.
But, oh, that first touch of him, his wet face pressed on her own, his cold, soft, wet mouth, the laughter behind that mouth and the seriousness of it as well in the playing of his tongue on hers his hands on her breasts his mouth on her breasts and his hand between her legs, the full, tight, hardness of him inside her.
My love.
The next time he came to her, striding down the creek, the red-gold of the late sun lighting his skin and his hair, the grey-blue glitter of his eyes, the pinpoints of feeling started up in her belly and quickened down there between her legs and her face was flushing up hot from the wanting of him. She glanced up at him, half-shamed how it was now between them, but proud of it as well.
Close your eyes.
She closed them tight and she felt the warm strength of his hand taking hers, leading her, felt the prickle of briar on her arms, ferns against her legs felt the thick dense toughness of flaxes barring the way as he tugged her, guiding her, she could hear the prr-prr-prr of a bush pigeon, something soft beneath her feet, could feel the smile which stretched across her face. She could not keep it back: she was the little girl wanting to see the new hidey-hole, she was the grown woman wanting her man.
You can open your eyes now.
They were within trees which curved inwards making a canopy of thick leaves and silvery branches; the ferns and scrub had been flattened into a soft and silken carpet. He had spread a quilt of faded colours, dullish pink and pearly grey, and there were jam jars with candles inside.
Daddy, Ma, working at Smithsons, all of it would fade away into only her and him because, after the war, somewhere else, somewhere different, she would be right alongside him; she would be his wife.
That’s what he said, lying on his back beside her and she saw in the candlelight how his eyes were lit up with it. He told her of the books he’d read, the people he’d met and she told him in turn what she thought and what was being said at Smithsons. And when she was away from him, she was looking out all the time for stories she might tell him, listening and saving them up and thinking of how she would tell a story to make him smile and it made the waiting for the next time easier.
The touch of him, the sound of his voice, the gleam of his eyes in the dark as he turned to her and his hands and his taste and the smell of him. She told him about the grandparents and the aunties and the uncles and the cousins at Ahaura she had imagined but never seen. He told her about the grandmother he met only once, his father’s mother, Lena. About the swish and rustle of the black dress she wore, the strings of pearls at her neck and how she was old but beautiful as well, her grey-fair hair pinned up and her face pale and polished and her eyes like sea, grey and blue and she said your eyes and she kissed his eyes and then his mouth.
Their place with the velvety softness of the quilt and the candles and him. Thinking of it was what kept her going after Ma died, through Daddy’s shouts and the slapping he gave to her and her own grief and guilt that she’d left her alone. Through the funeral and seeing Ma go into the ground.
She’d not been able to get away. It was only when Daddy went back to the pub she’d been able to go to their place and wait for him, but he hadn’t come. She was at Smithsons the next day clearing up from dinner when Mrs Smithson came into the kitchen. ‘We want some more tea in there, Pansy. Well, you’d never believe what Mr Costley just told me. Otto Bader’s been took away yesterday. The police come from Greymouth and picked him up. Off up to Somes Island they say, it’s where they’re keeping them Germans.’
She dropped the tea towel she was holding, she was running out of the door and down the street. It couldn’t be true, it was just another one of Mr Costley’s stories, it couldn’t be true. The Baders’ house was dark, there were no lamps lit, but she knocked on the front door then she ran around to the back and saw the light in the kitchen and slapped her hands against the door there. ‘Mrs Bader. It’s Pansy Williams.�
��
She could see them through the curtain covering the window, Klara and Mrs Bader sitting at the table. ‘Please, Mrs Bader. Please. It’s about Otto.’
Mrs Bader opened the door. ‘What is it you want?’
Vot iss it you vont. Mrs Bader’s voice which had once seemed to her soft and singy-songy was harsh and threatening. They stood in the doorway, Mrs Bader and Klara close behind her, their faces hard.
‘I have to speak to Otto.’
‘Otto is not here.’
‘Did he leave a letter for me?’
‘There is no letter for you.’
‘Get off, Pansy Williams.’ It was Klara now. ‘We don’t want you here.’
‘Mrs Bader, you know me. You’ve known me all my life.’
‘Why are you here pretending to be our friend when it is your father who has had Otto taken?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Klara heard him boasting at the Dominion hotel that he has written to the police in Greymouth telling them that Otto is a German revolutionary and a spy. That he is in contact with his father in Germany.’
‘Daddy wouldn’t do that.’
But he would. She sees Klara’s face, full of spite and cunning and triumph, as Mrs Bader closes the door and she understands. Klara knows about her and Otto; she’d have followed them, of course she would. And it would have been her who told Letty Davis and she would have told Daddy.
Klara plodding after them. They never wanted her, but she always found them in the end. They’re running for the track, darting ahead of Klara and they’re onto the next one and another and around the curve in the last and off now through the ferns, the cabbage trees, the undergrowth and diving for the clump of flaxes, burrowing down and though their hearts are bursting in their chests with wanting to laugh out loud they’re silent.
Mother put me in charge. You have to do what I say, Otto, or I’m telling. I’m telling.
They hear her clumping after them as they huddle together. They hear the crackle of ferns being pushed apart as she scrutinises the clusters of matagouri and ferns and flaxes. They know that she will never give up until she’s in front of them, her hands planted on her hips.
I’m telling. I’m telling.
31
She’d not known what to do those first days after Clem left; she didn’t know their ways and she sat dumb at the breakfast table while Mrs Bright and the girls cut the bread and made the tea and every time she stood up to clear the table or wash the dishes, they told her to sit back down, there was no need for her help.
She’d gone back to Smithsons, well, what else was she to do with her time? Everyone at the Brights was nice enough to her, there were no harsh words, but there was that awful silence. Mr and Mrs Bright spoke to her as if to a stranger and sometimes she caught the girls staring at her with the curiosity and puzzlement clear in their faces. Clem had married her then straight away left and gone off to war? Why had he done that and her with his baby inside her? Why had he gone? It was her fault Clem had gone and her fault if he was hurt or killed. The knowledge sat hard on her shoulders as she sat on their chairs, ate their food, slept in the bed Mrs Bright had got for her.
They were at the table, eating their dinner, everyone stiff and quiet. Then someone was knocking at the door and Mrs Bright opened it and Constable Hogan was there.
‘Sorry to be interrupting your dinner, Mrs Bright.’ He stood in the doorway, his face grim. ‘But I have to speak with Pansy. I, uh, I understand she’s stopping with you now.’
There were no secrets in Blackball. Mrs Bright stared hard at Constable Hogan: what could he be here for and right on dinner time into the bargain? She turned to Pansy and the look on her face was that Pansy was bringing still more trouble into their house.
‘Mick, you had better show Constable Hogan into the sitting room. You go along in with them, Pansy.’
Pansy sat on the chesterfield sofa and Constable Hogan nodded at Mr Bright that he should stay and they sat facing her. Constable Hogan cleared his throat. ‘It’s, uh, it’s your daddy, Pansy.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s been found up the creek. He must’ve been setting off explosives for, for the trout and . . . and he’s fallen.’
‘He’s hurt himself, you mean?’
‘He’s drowned, Pansy.’
‘He’s . . . he’s drowned? Dead?’
‘I’m sorry.’
He was dead. Why was she crying? For her daddy who had spoiled everything for her and taken everything she ever wanted? Him and his fists and his whisky and his women.
Dead.
Where’s my little lass?
Mr Bright was shaking Constable Hogan’s hand, seeing him out and she was shivering all over, tears and snot running down her face, she had no handkerchief, and on Mrs Bright’s best sofa.
Where’s my little lass then?
She was on her own; Ma gone and the boys and Otto gone and Clem and now her daddy. She had no one left.
And then Mrs Bright was beside her, her arm around her shoulder, hush now, hush now, Pansy. She was giving her a cup of tea, there was sugar in it, it was too sweet, too milky, but Mrs Bright was telling her sugar was good when you’d had a shock, come on, drink it up now.
Mrs Bright wiping her eyes and her nose with her own handkerchief as if she was a little girl. Ssh-shh, it’ll be all right. It’ll be all right. And holding her afterwards, shush now, shush, and coming into her bedroom and running her hand across her forehead, smoothing back her hair, you have us, Pansy, you have us now.
And at the funeral Mrs Bright had held on to her hand right through it and afterwards she’d said it wasn’t right any more, Pansy calling her Mrs Bright, what about calling her Mother, the way her own children did? Mother. Mother Bright.
At the end of the week, after Mrs Smithson paid her, she handed the money to Mother Bright soon as she came into the kitchen.
‘What’s this?’
‘It’s for my keep.’
‘For your keep? You’re family. We don’t want your money.’
‘I want to help.’
‘What about you popping into Currans tomorrow and picking up some nice fine wool? And we’ll need winceyette for the gowns and flannel for the nappies and cotton for sheets and pillowslips. We better make a start on getting things ready.’
She hadn’t thought of the baby needing things.
‘There’s the crib we used for Clem and the girls still here. I’ve got a blanket, it’s old but it’s nice and soft. We can use that as well. A baby in the house, just think of that now.’
She waited a week before she went back. There were still her things there and who was going to clean out the place if it wasn’t her? The mine would want it back quick enough and she didn’t want anyone else fingering their things, taking what they wanted and screwing up their noses over the rest.
The back door was swinging wide open so the kitchen floor was wet from the rain. The scrap bucket they kept for the chooks was full and black with mould on the top of it. She lit the range to heat the water, filled up the bucket and washed down the kitchen floor. She hauled down the washing pulley, took off Daddy’s socks, long johns, singlets, shirt and piled them on a chair. She’d already emptied the cupboard and chest of drawers of Ma’s things but now there were Daddy’s to attend to.
She worked quickly and methodically: his work clothes, still stiff with coal dust, his white shirt, his suit. His watch and chain were gone; Letty would have taken anything she could get money for. Well, let her. It could rest on her conscience, if she had one.
The top drawer of his bureau was filled with papers. There were letters from his mother and his sisters in Wales and she took them and the pile of newspapers into the backyard and lit them. Daddy’s singlets and socks, his shirts and long johns went up like nobody’s business but his
suit took longer to catch.
Ma laying his suit out on the table, brushing it, heating the iron on the range, pressing each fold and crease of it, just so, just so.
Don’t think about that. Don’t think about it.
She went back inside, opened the chest of drawers in her own room. Everything was jumbled up and unfolded: Letty had been in here as well. The blouses and the good stockings she’d left behind were gone. She bent down and looked under her own bed for anything fallen down, then went into Daddy’s room to look beneath the double.
She took out what was there and shook it out. The underdress was torn and dirty at the hem and the lace stained with face powder, there were dark patches beneath the top of the sleeves from Letty’s sweat. She rolled all of it into a ball and threw it onto the top of the fire. She watched the flames tug then clutch at the silk and lace, turning it into a small, bright inferno.
What she’d wanted for herself, well, that’s gone now. The Brights are kind to her, though, and she thinks Mother Bright has come to love her and she loves her, which makes her wish it had been Clem that she’d loved. But it wasn’t that way and there’s nothing she can ever do about it.
There’s Lena that’s come out of it all. The grief she felt when Otto had gone was a blackness and a coldness that settled over her. All those months it was with her, through Clem leaving and Daddy drowning, through Mrs Smithson’s eyes on her belly, through all those other eyes and their nods.
Then, when Lena was coming, she’d never thought there could be such pain. But those hours and hours when it felt her flesh and her bones were being twisted and wrenched and torn and that she couldn’t endure it another moment, well, once all that was settled, she was settled. She was different, as if the pain had seared away the sorrow. There was Mother Bright beside her, as she’d been right through every one of those hours, and there was Lena. There was no room for grief any more.
Through the Lonesome Dark Page 24
