by Karen Wyld
Victoria looked towards where she was pointing, then climbed out of bed and walked quietly across the floor. Victoria opened the stove’s wood compartment and poked the dying embers until a low flame appeared. After loading it with small pieces of wood, she shut the stove again. Victoria picked up the kettle. It felt full, so she put it on the stovetop. She went to the rickety, freestanding cupboard that had a mesh door, and took out a tea cannister and three cups. While the kettle boiled, she cut thick slices of hard bread. Meanwhile, Maggie had got out of bed and was rifling through her bag.
‘Not so loud,’ whispered Victoria, pointing to their sleeping mother.
Maggie nodded as she put on her shoes. Finding a jumper, she put it on over her nightgown and went to the front door. She opened it just a fraction and peeked out. The von Wolffs’ house was a fair distance to the left. She couldn’t see any signs of people being awake over there. Maggie stepped outside, hoping the rainbow birds would fly closer. While her sister got breakfast ready and her mother slept, she breathed in the aroma of nearby flowers, listened to the gentle swish of tree branches, and watched tiny birds fly overhead. She felt as if, maybe, everything would be all right.
Brigid had been surprised when Iris had given her the rest of the day off. She usually had every second Sunday off. No more, or less. Stefan insisted she be up at the house from daybreak to nightfall, preparing all the meals and doing all the housework. With a quick break in the afternoons, to greet her daughters after they’d made the long walk back from school. And, after feeding them an early dinner, she went back to work in the big house. A free day on a Thursday was most unexpected. At first she declined the offer, as Stefan was leaving for an overnight trip to the city, and Brigid didn’t want to leave Iris alone. Iris insisted on Brigid having the day off, once she’d finished washing the breakfast dishes, as it was the twins’ tenth birthday. Brigid was appreciative of having more time to prepare for their party. No friends from school had been invited, as she didn’t want a furious Stefan von Wolff knocking on her door, complaining about happy children making noise. As luck would have it, though, he wasn’t home, so the girls could make as much noise as they wanted. Brigid was planning on making their favourite treats, and decorating the cottage as best she could. And she would take them on a treasure trail at dusk, to find their presents.
As she was cooking, the sound of a car caught her attention. Concerned that Stefan had returned, Brigid peeked out the door. She saw Sally Humphries, Iris’s friend, drive up to the house. Sally took out a number of brown bags from the back seat, and went inside. An hour later, Brigid heard her leave. When she heard Iris calling for her, she raced up to the house, thinking she needed some help. Standing on the verandah, Iris was smiling.
‘Come look. I hope you like it.’
Puzzled, Brigid followed her inside. Down the long corridor and into the dining room. On the best table linen, and the best crockery, laid a feast. Cupcakes on delicate tiered stands. Flower petals set in jelly, in crystal bowls. Cucumber sandwiches, with the crusts cut off, on bone china. A huge pink-iced sponge cake in the centre, and Iris’s favourite tea set sitting to one side of the table.
‘What do you think? Will the twins be pleased?’
‘You made all this?’
‘I ordered it from the café in town, and Sally delivered it. Doesn’t it all look so delicious?’
Brigid frowned. ‘What is this for?’
‘Afternoon tea for the twins’ birthday, of course.’
‘Why didn’t you ask me first?’
Iris sat down, shoulders slumped. ‘What was I thinking?
Of course I should have asked you. How silly of me not to consider you’d already have something planned. Please forgive me.’
‘Nothing to forgive, Iris. I’m worried about you overexerting yourself. You need to be taking things more slowly.’
‘I have been a bit more exhausted than usual. How did I ever manage before you arrived? You’re a good friend, Brigid. And I’m a fool. This food will all go to waste now.’
Brigid looked down at Iris. She appeared to be folding in on herself. Her face was worryingly pale, expect for a flush of colour on her cheeks. Brigid had been planning her daughters’ birthday party for weeks. Putting aside money to buy material to make their presents, and ingredients to cook their favourite treats. In all their ten years, this was to be the best party she’d ever given them. She didn’t like how Iris had tried to take over. She also didn’t want to upset her friend, who was obviously excited about what she’d organised.
‘What if we combine parties?’ suggested Brigid.
‘Oh yes! They can come up here after school and…’
‘No, you come to our place.’
‘How? There’s too much to carry.’
‘You go put on a cardigan, and let me worry about that.’
When Iris returned, the table was bare and Brigid was nowhere to be seen. She opened the front door, and found her. She’d loaded up the wheelbarrow with food.
‘What a good idea! Shall I fetch the crockery?’
‘I don’t want to risk breaking your favourite setting. We can use what’s in the cottage. Are you ready?’
‘This feels like a grand adventure. Stefan never lets me have fun. He used to, when we were first married. He’d take me to the city, to dine at the best places. Sometimes we even saw a concert. He does love music. I didn’t really like the concerts, but it was fun to dress in my finest and go out amongst people. Nowadays, he won’t even take me into the local town, unless I urgently need to purchase personal items.’
Brigid picked up the barrow handles, and started to walk. Slowly, so as not to tire Iris.
‘I know you probably won’t believe me, but he wasn’t always like this. I don’t know why he changed. Perhaps it’s living with someone who’s so dull, and always unwell.’
‘You’re not dull. Maybe sickness scares him. Some people don’t cope when loved ones have cancer.’
‘You’re probably right. Most of my friends no longer visit, either. I thought it was because Stefan has become so unbearable. Maybe it’s because they don’t like being around sickness. Is it hard being here, with me?’
‘Not at all. I consider us friends. And the girls like your company.’
‘Then why do you look sad so often? Is it him?’
‘To be honest, it’s not easy being around your husband. He expects so much of me, and is often far too abrupt with the children. He scares them.’
‘He hasn’t hurt them? You can tell me.’
She shook her head. ‘Not really. Just words. Some of the things he says are extremely hurtful. He makes it clear that I’m beneath him, as far as he’s concerned. He’s harder on Victoria than Maggie. Even though she’s tough like me, I still worry about her.’
‘Why do you think he singles her out?’
‘Your husband doesn’t approve of us because of our skin.’
Iris suddenly went quiet. Brigid thought, Have I said too much? It wasn’t an easy subject, and she wasn’t used to openly discussing what made her different in the eyes of others, or how she felt about that. She hadn’t even talked about this topic with her daughters. Brigid didn’t know how to. There had been no one in her life to give her guidance to cope with discrimination, especially as a child, when she needed help to deal with schoolyard taunts.
‘What do you mean? Your scars are hardly noticeable. And Victoria has beautiful skin,’ commented Iris, before she covered her mouth. ‘Oh, now I understand. I should have realised sooner. I’m sorry. It’s the way he was raised, all that hate during the war, he can’t help it.’
‘It’s not your fault. Your husband’s views are not yours. Are they?’
‘No, no. I don’t see colour. Truly. You and your lovely daughters have brightened up my dreary life. You know I’d do anything for you.’
Brigid placed the wheelbarrow by the cottage door, and started to unload. Is it even possible not to see colour? she wondered. Her gr
anny had alluded to something similar, whenever Brigid had come home from school in tears. All she could give her granddaughter were there-there pats on the shoulder, and strange tales of potatoes. Danny was the first person willing and able to discuss what it meant to be seen as different. Only a newborn when he and his brothers were stolen from their mother, he didn’t even have a memory of her face to cherish, let alone family stories to keep him warm. Despite the way some people treated him and the attempted indoctrination he’d received at the children’s home, he was a proud Aboriginal man. Brigid recalled how determined he’d been to find his family.
Much to his disappointment, she’d never wanted to talk about identity – his or hers. Brigid knew now that by not properly listening to him, she’d not been loving enough towards him. She suddenly realised she’d treated Nana Vic and Grandfather Albert in a similar way. If she’d let them, they would have taught her how to help Victoria and Maggie stand strong against the hate, to be grounded in culture, to proudly carry the stories. Instead, she’d quietly rejected their help and their stories.
At least Danny had found that ancient inland sea he sought, and been reunited with some of his family. He would most likely want to search for his two brothers. Maybe he was even looking for her. Brigid hoped that, whether he was alive or dead, he’d found the inner peace he was seeking.
Iris looked around, bewitched by the butterflies fluttering over brightly coloured flowers. ‘You seem settled in the old cottage. I was concerned it would not be comfortable and warm enough for you and the girls. Winter sure gets cold around here. I do like what you’ve done here, this garden is so pretty.’
‘Maggie helped. She loves flowers. And she was hoping a bright garden would attract more finches.’
Brigid walked inside, with Iris following. She removed dishes from the small table, and spread Iris’s lace tablecloth. Together, they reset the table. The café food, combined with the more modest homemade food, made a mouth-watering sight.
Brigid noticed Iris was having trouble breathing. ‘Sit, rest a while. The girls will be home from school soon, and you’ll need energy to deal with their excitement when they see you here.’
‘Do they really like my company, or are you just being kind?’
Brigid went to put the kettle on the stove. ‘If they had their way, they’d be up at your house every single day. As we both know, Stefan wouldn’t be pleased with their chitter-chatter.’
‘They are such sweet darlings, I could listen to them all day long. I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I’ve noticed Maggie doesn’t smile as much lately. Is she all right?’
‘She’s fine. Just a bit embarrassed about her teeth.’
‘Her teeth?’
‘She needs braces. I can’t afford them on my wages.’
‘I hope the children aren’t teasing her at school.’
‘A little. Mostly calling her flopsy the crooked-toothed bunny, and similar taunts. She’s coping.’
Iris took a sip from the teacup placed next to her, while Brigid put scones in the oven to warm up.
‘I’ll lend you the money for Maggie’s braces.’
‘No, I can’t accept your money. Anyway, I’m sure Stefan would never approve.’
‘He doesn’t need to know. This would be just between us. I have my own money, in my own bank account. Stefan doesn’t even know about my nest egg. My father gave it to me, and made me promise to use it if I ever needed to leave my husband. Both my parents came over for the wedding. He encouraged me to travel when I had an offer to teach overseas. And, a year later, seemed happy when I wrote to tell him I was engaged. He and mother were so excited to visit, to witness me getting married. They’d never been overseas before. Once here, and after meeting Stefan, my father was reluctant to leave me in a country without family.’
‘He must miss you. And he obviously cared enough to give you that money. I can’t take it. You might need it one day.’
‘I am slowly dying. What use have I for a nest egg? Let me lend you the money. It will make me happy to help others. Maggie is far too pretty to endure bad teeth for the rest of her life.’
‘Can we talk about this later? I can hear the girls. Are you ready for their squeals of excitement when they see the party we’ve created?’
The morning sun peeked out from between dark grey clouds and penetrated the room through half-drawn curtains. Cocooned under a hand-stitched patchwork quilt, Iris saw the sunlight creeping across her bed. If it wasn’t impossible, Iris would have caught that warming light and held it close. She was tired of winter. Tired of the way the coldness tiptoed into her bones and made them scream with pain. She suspected her husband was also tired – of her. He was away from home a lot more, spending most weekends in the city. Stefan insisted it was because of his artwork; he had meetings with gallery owners and exhibition openings to attend. And he still attended concerts and operas in the city, no longer inviting his wife. She thought it was because he couldn’t stand the sight of her any more.
Brigid entered the room to ask if she’d like to sit for a while on the verandah. Too exhausted for words, Iris nodded. After nearly two years of caring for Iris, Brigid could almost predict her every need. She knew Iris needed sunlight, whatever warmth she could get. Even though her employer had lost so much weight, Brigid still appreciated Victoria’s help to lift her. Together, they gently carried the quilt-wrapped Iris outside, trying not to cause her more pain. After placing Iris in the rocking chair, Brigid sat in the chair next to her. A pile of clothes to be darned lay in a basket at her feet.
As Brigid mended a small hole in a child’s dress, Iris’s hands twitched slightly at the sound of the needle. Her fingers remembered the motion, in and out, in and out – the comforting rhythm of needle piercing cloth, the softness of cloth surrendering to the hard metal. Iris thought back through the years, seeing in her mind the patchwork quilts she’d created, quilts that were now scattered around the globe, being cherished by others. Her husband was not the only artist in this household. Iris was once renowned for her quilts, each one more a work of art than mere bed linen. All Iris had of those beautiful quilts were her memories and the fading quilt she’d always favoured. The one now used to conceal her shrinking body.
Iris pulled the quilt tightly around herself and studied the vista before her. The sun’s rays were no longer peeking through dark clouds. Mist had rolled in, concealing the paddocks, closing her off from the world. She felt uncomfortable, as if something was not quite right. Fog always made her feel uneasy, but today there was something more. Something dark lay waiting, concealed in the mist; she felt sure of it. Victoria had also noticed the mist, but not the foreboding presence. She ran back to the house, searching for her sister.
‘Maggie, come and see this. Hurry,’ she called down the hallway.
Brigid frowned, having more than once instructed her daughters not to be too unruly around Iris.
Maggie walked out the front door. ‘What? It’s too cold out here.’
Her reluctance quickly vanished when she looked up, past the verandah, at the mist that crept towards the house. Their small cottage had already been swallowed.
Victoria took her sister’s hand. ‘Come on.’
Maggie pulled her hand free. ‘No. I can see it from here.’
Iris caught Victoria’s eye. ‘Don’t be going out there, girl. It’s not safe.’
Victoria paused, reflecting on those cautioning words.
‘It’s okay. Go and play,’ said Brigid with a smile.
Iris’s eyes widened. ‘It’s not safe out there. She should be content with watching it from here.’
Brigid put down her darning and considered the fog for a moment. Victoria waited, prepared to defy both adults. While Maggie stood in the doorway, hoping Victoria would change her mind.
‘My grandmother taught me about this type of mist,’ Brigid divulged. ‘It’s the breath of dragons. Apparently they were common in her homeland. She’d told me they were friendly
creatures, despite their appearance. There’s nothing in that mist to be afraid of.’
Victoria glanced at Maggie, eyes shining with excitement. Maggie refused to meet her sister’s eyes, for she knew Victoria’s attraction to adventure. And her skills of persuasion.
‘Are there really dragons out there?’ Victoria asked.
‘Of course not,’ opined Iris. ‘It’s just a myth. Dragons aren’t real. Not here, not anywhere.’
Victoria sat heavily on the verandah steps, shoulders drooping.
Brigid said, ‘My grandmother knew they were real. When I was little, she told me lots of stories about dragons. You’ll just have to work out what’s the truth for yourself, Victoria.’
Victoria glanced over her shoulder, and saw her sister shaking her head.
‘Come on, there’s nothing to be afraid of. Mother wouldn’t let us go in there if it was dangerous. Anyway, you know I’ll always protect you,’ pleaded Victoria.
Maggie stepped backwards, letting the screen door close, hoping to place a barrier between herself and her sister’s persuasive ways.
Victoria walked over to the door and put her face to the mesh. Maggie could feel Victoria’s warm breath on her face. The sisters stood, face to face, neither willing to give in to the other’s needs.
‘That’s a good girl,’ muttered Iris. ‘Don’t listen to your foolish sister. Stay here, where it’s safe.’
Maggie blinked, just once, and Victoria knew who’d won this stand-off. Despite her fears of what might lie beyond, Maggie was not going to tolerate anyone calling her sister foolish. Victoria opened the door and took Maggie by the hand. With a wary glance at their mother, Maggie allowed herself to be led towards the mist.
Brigid smiled at her shy finch and fearless eagle as they walked towards the thick fog. She still remembered her own childhood adventures after listening to her grandmother’s colourful tales. Stories carried across the sea, from a faraway place, in a time long ago.
‘You shouldn’t encourage them with their nonsense, Brigid. Maybe you should be insisting they put more energy into their homework, rather than playing childish games.’
