Where the Fruit Falls

by Karen Wyld

  Brigid shouted, ‘Stop talking about me. I’m right here.’

  ‘You are here. We’re not.’

  And with that, they were gone.

  EIGHT

  About the time Brigid realised Isabelle had no more to tell her about Daniel, her feet began to itch. At first it was just a little itch, not more than a tingle. Nothing a good scratch couldn’t resolve. Too soon, scratching only made her feet feel hot. This irritation was waking her at night with a frantic urge to scratch her soles. Bethel gave her some calamine lotion to dab on them, and it gave some temporary relief. A week later, Isabelle was puzzled by a restlessness she sensed in Brigid. Sitting by the fire, while the girls played chasey with their cousins, Brigid took off her shoes and rubbed the soles of her feet. Isabelle saw the redness and made a clicking noise. She got up, went into her humpy and came straight out again. She handed Brigid a small jar.

  Brigid opened the lid and sniffed the greenish balm.

  ‘For your feet,’ said Isabelle. ‘Rub it in.’

  She did as she was told and felt immediate relief.

  Isabelle said, ‘It might take away the redness from all your scratching, but it won’t stop your feet from itching.’

  Brigid sighed. ‘Will anything?’

  ‘There’s no cure to be found around here. Looks like you’ve got wandering feet. Those feet want to get walking again.’

  ‘I have been thinking it’s time to leave. I just don’t know where I should go.’

  ‘That’s never stopped you before.’

  Brigid nodded, remembering that little bird from years ago that she had followed without questioning, without fear and without purpose. In contrast, all those years she’d walked with her daughters was to find Danny. Then she had a purpose. A why, but not a where. And now? Isabelle had asked around; no one had seen or heard from Danny for many years. Not since he’d boarded a train, headed north. All Isabelle knew was that her nephew Daniel, having found the inland sea that called to him, had gone back to the woman he loved. Isabelle now knew that Brigid hadn’t been there, waiting. Brigid and Danny had most probably crossed over the same country. Sat by a campfire and gazed up at the same stars. Just not together.

  ‘He’s out there somewhere,’ remarked Isabelle, as if reading her mind.

  ‘I have a growing feeling that I’ll never see him again.’ ‘Maybe so. Doesn’t mean he’s not still out there.’

  Brigid shook her head, not understanding what Isabelle meant. And then a shiver ran down her back and dug itself into the soft dirt she sat on. Isabelle had seen that shiver and hoped it would not return too soon. She put a hand on Brigid’s back, wishing she could protect her from what lay ahead, even though she knew that was impossible.

  ‘Never let fear win,’ she said. ‘You’re not a mouse. That’s not who you are. It’s not who your people are.’

  Isabelle glanced at the apple pendant the younger woman wore. Brigid reached up and grasped it. The smell of apples wafted on the air. Suddenly, Brigid remembered her granny and the stories she had told. Brigid recalled how confused she had been as a child, listening to stories of apple seeds and potatoes. Now she was more conflicted than confused. Brigid then had an image of Nana Vic, standing by the bloodwood tree with an apple in her hand.

  Brigid smiled. ‘Me, a mouse? Look how far I’ve come on my own. And then with my daughters. I keep them safe, all on my own.’

  ‘You think walking takes courage? Listening to things that go bump in the night. Leaving family behind, avoiding people. Pfft. What are you running from? Face up to what really scares you, and then you’ll no longer need to keep walking.’

  ‘If it makes my feet stop itching, I’ll try anything.’

  ‘You say that, but will you?’

  Once more, Brigid stood with suitcases at her feet. Once more, there were people to farewell. Brigid and the girls had already hugged Aunty Isabelle goodbye. The day before, she’d ordered Brigid to stay by the campfire, while she took the girls to the inland sea in a nephew’s rusty car. Victoria came back flushed with excitement, whereas Maggie appeared to be disappointed. When Brigid asked her what happened, Isabelle had made it clear that it was something she shared with her great-nieces, and not of her concern. Brigid shrugged, and said goodbye. Just like when she’d departed from Nana Vic and her grandfather Albert, Brigid did not seem to care that she was leaving behind kin once more, most probably never to be seen again. She felt sure her path would never again cross with Isabelle’s. Isabelle didn’t judge her nephew’s woman, who was leaving on her own terms, but Brigid’s coldness would not stop her from hugging the girls closely to her chest. Isabelle whispered final words in Victoria’s and Maggie’s ears, and then released them. As she walked back to her humpy, Isabelle knew Brigid was also walking away without looking back.

  From the back seat, the girls watched their cousins chase Omer’s car, waving, laughing, calling out. Victoria and Maggie waved back, already eager for the next time they would see their cousins.

  Out the front of the general store, Omer helped Brigid place their suitcases next to the coach. The driver picked up the largest one, to put in the luggage compartment on the side of the bus, and then paused.

  ‘Are you both boarding?’ he asked.

  Omer shook his head. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  The driver frowned. ‘She’s travelling alone?’

  ‘No,’ stated Brigid. ‘My daughters are travelling with me.’ The driver suddenly noticed Victoria and Maggie. His frown deepened. Omer handed him another suitcase.

  Before he loaded it, the driver stressed to Omer, ‘Don’t want trouble. You tell ’er that, mate.’

  Brigid put her hands on her hips. ‘You can speak directly to me. I do speak English, just like you. Perhaps even better.’

  She sensed ears tingling around her, as onlookers waited to hear what the driver would say next. He didn’t reply; he turned his back on her. One woman, of a similar age to Brigid, had that type of expression that indicated she always had plenty to say. Instead, she quietly smoothed down her black linen dress, and pulled her lace-edged gloves just a bit higher over wrists that hadn’t been kissed by the sun for a long time.

  Brigid returned to Bethel, who was waiting near the car.

  Bethel asked, ‘Are you sure you should leave like this?’

  ‘It’s time for me to go home. I miss my mother.’

  ‘Why not call her? Your mother would help you get home quicker.’

  Brigid shook her head. ‘I couldn’t ask her for help, not after all these years. I’ve just enough money for this coach to the city, and once there I’ll find work. I plan on staying in the city only long enough to earn the fare home. No longer.’

  ‘I do wish you would let Omer and me help you get home. I am sure that is what your mother would want.’

  ‘Don’t worry about us, Bethel. I have this all planned out. You and Omer have done enough for me already. Not only sheltering us for nearly two years, welcoming us into your lives. I can never repay your kindness.’

  ‘Oh please, no need to thank us. Omer is going to miss the girls.’

  Bethel then noticed the woman wearing gloves on a hot day, who was looking at them in a most unfriendly manner. Bethel thought she recognised the woman as the dressmaker’s daughter, who’d left town many years ago. Mrs Todd, the dressmaker, had recently taken ill and Bethel heard the daughter had come back to care for her. Sadly, Mrs Todd had been buried last week. Which would explain the daughter’s black dress. Bethel couldn’t remember the Todd girl’s name. It had been years since she’d married that accountant from the city.

  ‘Mrs Smythe,’ said the driver. ‘Can I load that for you?’

  The woman turned away from watching Bethel and Brigid, and handed her suitcase to the driver. A small boy, a few years younger than the twins, ran to her. She took out a hanky and wiped a smudge of dust off the boy’s face as he wriggled in protest.

  ‘Mother, there’s other children getting on this
bus,’ he announced excitedly.

  Mrs Jones had noticed Victoria and Maggie talking with Omer. She frowned, confused, as the girls walked over to the woman that was with Bethel. Mrs Smythe watched them, lips tightly pursed. If Victoria had seen her face, she would have whispered to Maggie, ‘Cat’s bum,’ and they would both have laughed, for they had seen such a look on a white woman’s face too many times. Neither girl had noticed Mrs Smythe’s disapproving stare, but Bethel had. It was a look she’d seen before, in her home country. On the faces of coldly distant neighbours, in the weeks before the trucks rolled into her once-friendly neighbourhood.

  ‘Take care, dear,’ she advised Brigid. ‘Be wary of façades of civility that mask bad intent.’

  Following the direction of Bethel’s gaze, Brigid saw Mrs Smythe looking at them. That shiver she’d released back at Isabelle’s camp a few days earlier caught up with her. It had crawled all the way here, over rocks and through ditches, avoiding abandoned mineshafts and dodging inquisitive lizards, just to find her. Once it had, it crept up her spine and nestled under her heart. Brigid first felt its coldness, and then a heaviness she would never be rid of until her last breath.

  Brigid kept her distance from Mrs Smythe once on the coach, finding a seat near the back. The Smythe boy, however, kept turning around in his seat and waving to them. Maggie at first waved back, until Victoria pulled her ear and told her to keep still. That made Maggie cry, and Brigid noticed Mrs Smythe’s shoulder twitch slightly with annoyance. She distracted Maggie with a story, until her daughter drifted off to sleep. Brigid didn’t need to look up to know that Mrs Smythe was glaring at them. And neither did Victoria. They both sat up, just a bit taller, shoulders back and heads high. Mrs Smythe pursed her lips once more, slapped her son’s leg and told him to sit still.

  Sometime in the night, Brigid and Victoria had drifted off to sleep too. Brigid, alert even while sleeping, felt the coach slowing, and then heard its brakes. Sitting up, she glanced out the window. The sun was only just appearing. Passengers started moving, stretching and murmuring, eager for a chance to move their legs. Brigid saw a sign appear: Parsons’ Tea Room and Garage. She grinned at the sign, remembering how her grandmother would say that people who used fancy words for simple things often thought they were better than they really were. Using the label ‘tea room’ for a run-down roadhouse in the middle of nowhere was proving her grandmother’s point. The petrol pumps out the front were still in use, but the garage next door appeared to have been closed for some time. Brigid saw a dim light shining in the roadhouse and, as she watched, more lights came on.

  The coach driver called out, ‘You have thirty minutes, folks. Not a minute more.’

  The passengers filed off the bus, hopeful that thirty minutes would be enough. Maggie was desperate to use the ladies’ room.

  Brigid took them to the browned lawn at the side of the building. ‘Let the others go first.’

  Maggie did a two-step dance as she waited, while Victoria studied Mrs Smythe. She’d already used the rest room and was looking for her son. She spied him under some trees and called him to her. She gave him a clip behind the ear, before dragging him into the roadhouse’s dining room.

  The bus driver walked to the roadhouse door and, as he entered, called out, ‘Mrs Parsons, have you made my tea extra strong?’

  Standing up, Brigid said to Victoria and Maggie, ‘Come on, the queue has gone.’

  Returning from the ladies’ rest room, the girls sat back down on the brittle grass and Brigid unpacked the hamper she’d made before leaving Bethel’s house. After eating, Maggie and Victoria ran around while Brigid packed up. She didn’t see Maggie run over to the trees, or the boy who waved her over. Brigid hurried to them when she heard Victoria yelling.

  ‘Let her go,’ Brigid said sternly.

  Mrs Smythe, still holding on to Victoria’s ear, asked, ‘Can you not keep your brat under control?’

  ‘My daughters are very well behaved. Unlike some children,’ she remarked, glancing at Mrs Smythe’s son.

  Mrs Smythe let go of Victoria. ‘She was associating with my William. Obviously does not know her place. Just like her mother, it would appear.’

  ‘Come on, girls, let’s get washed up before getting on the bus,’ said Brigid, turning her back on Mrs Smythe.

  As they walked back to the rest room, Brigid saw the driver moving towards the coach. A woman in a blue dress and flowery apron followed him.

  ‘I’ve packed you some scones for later,’ she said, handing him a brown paper bag.

  ‘You’re a good gal, Flo. George Parsons was a fool to leave ya.’

  Mrs Parsons flushed. ‘I get by well enough on my own.’

  ‘You’re now into that women’s rights rubbish, ain’t ya? No one’s perfect.’

  Without a word, she went back inside. The driver laughed to himself as he returned to the coach. Brigid hurried the girls along, worried they’d miss his strict reboarding time. When they all came out of the ladies’ room, they saw the driver roughly throwing their suitcases in the dirt. Brigid moved towards him, picking up dusty luggage on the way.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she cried.

  He stood, avoiding eye contact. ‘There’s been a complaint. Can’t have you and that girl on me coach any longer.’

  Brigid asked, ‘Complaint?’

  ‘Yeah. Knew you’d be trouble. Your type always is.’

  Brigid looked up at the row of windows. Of all the faces staring down at her, she only saw one: Mrs Smythe. The look on her face told Brigid all she needed to know.

  ‘I spent nearly all my money on these tickets. We must get back on the coach. We need to get to the city.’

  The driver walked towards the bus door. ‘Well, you ain’t getting there on my coach.’

  As the coach pulled out, Brigid watched Mrs Smythe once more. She knew what was behind that satisfied smirk: hate.

  Brigid and Victoria picked up their luggage, while Maggie stared at the coach as it disappeared on the highway.

  ‘Mumma?’

  ‘It’s done. Nothing we can do about it. We’ll walk. Will take us much longer to get to the city, but we’ll get there.’

  Maggie began to cry. Victoria prodded her shoulder, which only made her cry with more gusto. As Brigid walked towards the roadhouse, she noticed Mrs Parsons standing on the threshold. Pushing a stray hair behind an ear, Mrs Parsons walked towards them. She moved slowly, seeming to struggle in the morning heat.

  ‘Are you waiting to get picked up by family?’ she asked.

  Brigid shook her head. ‘I need to buy a few items, then we’ll be on our way.’

  The woman looked closely at Brigid, one eyebrow raised. Brigid continued to walk, encouraging the girls to keep pace.

  Mrs Parsons addressed Maggie. ‘Where’s your mummy, little one? Dry your tears. I’ll help you.’

  Maggie seemed confused. Victoria stood closer to her sister, placing a protective arm around her shoulder.

  ‘I’m her mother,’ said Brigid.

  ‘I highly doubt that. Why do you have her? That’s what I want to know.’

  ‘It’s really none of your business, but she is clearly my daughter. See, these girls are twins.’

  Mrs Parsons stared at Victoria and Maggie, unable to see any resemblance. Brigid gathered the girls to her and led them inside. Next to the dining area, there were shelves with snacks and basic groceries. As Brigid selected goods, Mrs Parsons went to the sales counter and picked up the phone. After dialling, she stretched the phone cord long enough to stand in a storage room. While Maggie looked longingly at the cold drinks behind a glass door, Victoria listened to Mrs Parsons’ conversation. Brigid saw Victoria and softly called her over.

  ‘That’s not polite.’

  ‘She mentioned us. To the police, I think. Said she would keep us here.’

  Brigid noticed Mrs Parsons looking too intently at Maggie, while talking into the phone. She appeared to be agitated. Noticing she wa
s being watched, Mrs Parsons placed a hand over her mouth and lowered her voice.

  Brigid went to the counter, and placed on it flour, jam, condensed milk, tea leaves, onions, potatoes and tinned meat.

  Mrs Parsons hung up the phone and went to serve her. She moved very slowly, while trying to engage Brigid in small talk. Given their previous exchange, Brigid was curt and willed her to move faster. Once she’d been handed the change, Brigid remembered she’d left the luggage outside. She went to fetch a string bag for the shopping. When she returned, Mrs Parsons was talking to Maggie.

  ‘I always wished I’d have a girl like you. You have such pretty green eyes. Would you like a soft drink? I can get you a cold one. You sit at this table, I won’t be long.’

  While Mrs Parsons went to fetch the drink for Maggie, Victoria went over to her sister. She tried to pull her out of the chair, while Maggie clung to its sides. Brigid had packed up her groceries, and turned to see the girls fighting.

  ‘Let’s go,’ she ordered.

  Maggie whined as she followed Victoria and her mother out of the roadhouse.

  Mrs Parsons called out, ‘I have your cold drink, sweetie.’ Maggie hesitated near the door.

  Brigid took her hand. ‘Come on now. We need to go.’

  They walked outside, with Mrs Parsons following them.

  ‘Leave that girl here, she’s not yours. You have no right to have her.’

  Brigid turned around. ‘I’m her mother. I don’t need your permission to leave. Or anything else. Keep your damn white women’s rights. And keep your hands off my daughter.’

  Leaving the roadhouse behind, they walked past the padlocked garage, Brigid occasionally glancing back. A car had pulled up to the petrol pump out the front of the roadhouse, and Mrs Parsons was talking to the driver as she filled up his tank.

  ‘This way,’ said Brigid, leading the girls down the side of a rusty shed.

  At the back of the shed, she noticed a loose sheet of metal. Peeling it back, she motioned to the girls to enter. It was dark inside the shed, and the smell of oil filled the air. Once her eyes became accustomed to the dark, Brigid saw that the shed was full of old cars. She selected the least rusty one and opened the back door.