by Joy Dettman
No pan of greasy water required to remove Lorna from their house that day. Maisy had moved her. She’d called in on her way home from Willama, convinced she’d seen Amber in Woolworths. The mention of Amber’s name – or of Woolworths – had got rid of Lorna.
Twice now, Jenny had posted letters to Jimmy’s address. Jim hadn’t written a second letter. He’d known his family, had known what it was like growing up in that family. He knew why Jimmy hadn’t replied.
‘You need to give up on him, Jen,’ he’d said.
If she’d known how to give up, she may have. Didn’t know how to let go of the image she’d carried with her for thirty years.
His cells had known they’d been conceived in love, and he’d grown big on that love, had almost crippled her. May have, had he not decided to come out a month early, and too big even then for her to get out. Doctor Frazer had put her to sleep with chloroform and dragged Jimmy into life with forceps. She hadn’t seen him for days, and when they’d let her see him, he’d been a scratched, bruised, egg-headed little wretch of a baby, and she’d loved him on sight.
‘I called six clubs, Jen,’ Georgie said.
‘Sorry. My mind’s wandering tonight.’
‘Margot called six hearts.’
Jenny studied her hand. She had good clubs and, for the first time tonight, the joker. She upped Georgie’s bid to seven clubs.
‘Pass,’ Elsie said.
‘I’ll leave it to you, Jen,’ Georgie said.
‘Seven heartth,’ Margot said, her hand reaching for the kitty.
‘Not so fast. I’ll try eight clubs,’ Jenny said.
‘Eight heartth then,’ Margot said, determined to win the kitty.
‘Nine clubs.’ If Georgie had good clubs, they might get nine.
‘You jutht thaid that to nark me,’ Margot said. She sucked in her lower lip and ground on it a while.
‘What are you doing, Margot?’
‘Nine heartth. And jutht you try to go ten.’
‘I would if I thought I could get them,’ Jenny said. ‘Get your nine hearts – if you can.’
She adjusted her cards, placing the joker beside the queen of hearts. She had two small hearts, the four and the seven. The joker was one definite trick. If the cards fell the right way, her queen might take another.
Margot gave her a look that might shrivel an elephant down to rat size when she saw what the kitty contained. A gambler, she’d gambled on those three cards to provide her with something other than rubbish. Her expression told them it hadn’t, and her reaction. She pitched the three cards to the table and again sorted her hand, hoping to expose something that wasn’t there. Swapped one of the kitty cards for one of her own, looked at Elsie, at Georgie, then eyed Jenny as she may have eyed a blood-sucking tick.
Not a fast decision-maker, Margot, but more often than not on the winning side when they played. There was nothing wrong with her mind and never had been. Too much like the Macdonald twins, that’s all, but with only one of her, she was unable to dominate – or to dominate anyone other than Elsie. Georgie lived with her, tolerated her, never argued, never complained, never said a bad word against her, but stood for no nonsense from her either. So much like Granny in so many ways. Still sounded like her at times.
‘Harry was saying there’s wall-to-wall vans out at the caravan park,’ Elsie said as four heads lifted and eyes turned again to the road as a car sped by. The bush had always funnelled its sound down to Granny’s house.
‘We were run off our feet at the shop today,’ Georgie said. ‘Fifty per cent of them were strangers.’
‘There’s been traffic on that road all day,’ Elsie said. ‘Half of them had boats.’
‘The creek’s too low for boats,’ Jenny said.
‘There’s rain coming, so they say.’
‘The farmers won’t be happy,’ Jenny said.
Around the district there were acres of wheat ready for harvesting. Rain and ripe wheat didn’t mix.
‘It was damn near dark when I drove back from Monk’s and the Jenners were still out on the harvester,’ Georgie said.
‘They’ll go all night, working shifts,’ Jenny said. ‘They’ve always been workers. Their father was the same back in the days of the horse-drawn harvester. He had two teams of horses but only one of him.’
‘He’s done well for himself,’ Elsie said.
‘Some people deserve to do well.’
Margot, bored with the conversation, led a small heart.
Jenny’s queen would beat it, her joker would take the trick, but she played her seven, then watched the fall of cards, counting the hearts. Elsie took the trick with the jack of diamonds, the third best trump in the pack – and she had no need to waste it. Georgie tossed a small club to the table. She had no hearts.
Elsie led the ace of spades. Georgie played the ten of spades. Margot eyed Jenny, then tossed down a small diamond, gambling on Jenny having a spade. She had three.
Two tricks down, seven to go, and Elsie leading spades again, the queen. Georgie played the jack, Margot the king, her lower lip sucked into her chin until Jenny played the five of spades. This was desperation play for Margot, who rarely left anything to chance. She was scratching for hearts and now Jenny knew it. Three tricks against her, she sat poised to pounce.
Margot led the jack of hearts, fishing for the joker she knew was in Jenny’s hand. It would beat the jack, but, still unready to play it, Jenny played her four, holding the queen and joker in reserve. What did Elsie have in reserve? She played a small heart.
Margot led the ace of diamonds. With no diamond in her hand, Jenny played the queen of hearts, breathless until Elsie played a diamond; and for that, Margot threw her remaining cards in Jenny’s face.
Georgie retrieved the cards from the floor. ‘Play the game out, Margot.’
‘Thee that on me.’
‘Play the game out, Margot,’ Georgie repeated.
‘Thee that on me.’
‘She went nine clubs and you wouldn’t let her have the kitty. Pick up your cards and play,’ Georgie said while Jenny and Elsie waited, eyes down.
They played it out. Jenny’s joker took its one trick. Elsie and Margot got the rest, but they didn’t get nine, and Georgie subtracted nine hearts from the opposition’s score, which, for the first time that night, put Jenny and Georgie in the lead.
Born with playing cards in their hands, Jenny’s kids. Granny had taught them to play five hundred before they’d reached double figures. It was a game of chance, where a winning hand could become a losing hand in the turn of a card. Margot gambled, Georgie never gambled. Sisters – half-sisters – they shared no similar looks or traits.
Another shuffle, another hand dealt, and the hands of Gertrude’s mantle clock ticked on.
‘I don’t know where Jim’s got to,’ Jenny said.
‘How was he going to get down here?’ Georgie asked.
‘John McPherson drove him out to Monk’s. He’ll drop him down here.’
To the old brigade, that property would always be Monk’s, even though Melbourne retirees might refer to it as the commune, or the youth of Woody Creek might name it the druggies’ camp. A few of them swore you could buy anything out there, from a string of love beads and a bunch of flowers to a bag of marijuana and a woman to go with it. While her bikie had been in jail, Raelene had lived out there for a month or two, Jenny hoping her time in jail might have settled her down. But Raelene wasn’t the settling type. She hadn’t stayed long at the commune.
There were twelve or fifteen assorted groups living along the creek, in caravans, shacks, prefab cottages. Tony Bell and his wife owned the land. They’d built a log cabin well distanced from the creek and the shacks. Jenny had spoken to the wife in town. She was city, but seemed friendly; as were a few of the girls who set up a stall at the station on Sundays, where they sold junk jewellery, hand-painted scarves and flowers. Unwed most of them, but raising families – and who was she to comment on that.
Much was written about the necessity of higher education, too. Jenny had been to school with kids who had never progressed beyond grade three. They’d gone off to fight a war, and those who’d returned had found work loading timber, cutting timber, milling timber. They were the discards of this new, more efficient world, many destined to spend their lives collecting the dole. It was the same for the blacks out at the mission. Twenty years ago, educated or not, the mission girls had found domestic work and the boys had got labouring jobs on farms, at mills, on railway gangs. A few whites had looked down their noses at them; many hadn’t. These days, most looked down their noses when they saw them drunk on their dole cheques.
‘The call is against you, Jen. What do you want to do?’ Georgie said.
‘What did I go?’
‘Hearts.’
‘Hearts?’ Jenny said. ‘It must have been just a call, love. I pass.’
‘Now you thay path. I would have gone heartth if you hadn’t gone it firtht,’ Margot whined.
‘Pass,’ Elsie said.
‘I’ll try seven diamonds,’ Georgie said.
Some you win. Some you lose. Jenny had lost with her firstborn, won with her second, lost badly with Raelene and won with Trudy. Trudy’d begin her nurse’s training in the new year.
Jimmy had been dealt a good hand – if good could be measured in dollars and cents. He’d inherited Vern Hooper’s all, then, according to Lorna, had inherited her uncle’s estate in England. That must have rankled – Lorna losing out to the boy she’d kidnapped. Maybe life worked out fair in the end – in its own twisted way.
‘Wake up, Jen,’ Georgie said.
She’d led a small diamond, fishing for the large cards she didn’t have. Margot had played her left bower. Jenny tossed down a small diamond, then started sorting her cards. She hadn’t been dealt much of a hand.
Another car approaching. Heads lifted, listening for it to go by. It didn’t. It was coming down Granny’s track.
‘That’ll be Jim,’ Jenny said.
Through the window, she watched the headlights approach. It didn’t look like John McPherson’s Morris.
Georgie placed her cards face down on the table and joined Jenny at the window, watching the car pull in behind Jenny’s Ford. Little light in the yard, insufficient to identify the model. Then the motor stilled, the lights were turned off and the driver opened the door to step out and stand a while, supporting herself on the car.
And Georgie was gone, the card game forgotten, Jenny behind her. They’d recognised the hair.
‘We’re not finithed,’ Margot whinged after them. ‘Jutht becauth we were beating you, you throw down your cardth.’
‘Pack them up, lovey. Somebody is here,’ Elsie said.
A BASIN OF EGGS
For miles Cara had killed her scream. Just get there, she told herself. Just get to where Tracy is and then you can do something. She was here, and here wasn’t close enough. Hens disturbed by the action in their yard clucked and jostled on their perches as Georgie and Jenny came through the chicken wire to question the new arrival. Or for Cara to question them.
‘Where’s the druggies’ camp, Georgie?’
‘What are you doing up here?’
‘Is Raelene up here?’
‘Every cop in Melbourne is,’ Georgie said. ‘What do you want with Raelene?’
‘She took my little girl,’ Cara said. ‘She killed my dog. She’ll kill Tracy. Is the camp out this road?’
‘No, and you won’t get near the place for cops,’ Georgie said. ‘Come inside.’
‘The police aren’t doing anything.’
‘They’re pulling the commune apart,’ Jenny said. ‘Jim’s out there helping them pull it apart.’
‘Come inside, have a coffee, then we’ll drive out there with you and you can see what they’re doing,’ Georgie said.
Cara, lost twice already tonight, and with insufficient fuel left in the wagon’s tank, couldn’t afford to take another wrong road. She was trembling with exhaustion, from lack of food, and that black-ice dread that had lodged at her core when she’d found Tracy’s empty bed. Hadn’t stepped out of the car since she’d left Melbourne; hadn’t bought coffee or petrol. A big vehicle, the HJ Holden, it had a big petrol tank, but well under the quarter full when she’d made her last wrong turn. It was running on empty now, as was she.
She followed them to the house, through the house. Georgie offered her cigarette packet. Jenny filled the jug, had the lid off the coffee jar.
‘How do you drink it, love?’
Wordless, Cara stared at that woman who had made the decisions about her life before she’d had a life.
Georgie replied for her. ‘Strong with two sugars, and plenty of milk.’
Wanted to tell Georgie she wasn’t up here to drink coffee with them, but wanted that coffee. Wanted that cigarette. Had left her bag and cigarettes in the car. Her keys – Robert’s keys – still in her hand. His brand new pride and joy yesterday. Had she locked it?
She took the mug Jenny offered; she looked at biscuits Georgie poured from a packet to a plate, then looked past the plate to the table beneath it. A hundred years of wear in that wood, gaps opening between its solid boards. Playing cards face down on it, one bunch retaining their fan shape. A full ashtray.
Her stomach wanted a biscuit more than a cigarette. And how could she think of eating? She did, Georgie standing watching her eat. Cigarette burnt down to the butt in the ashtray. Georgie killed it as Cara’s hand reached for a second biscuit. A shaking hand. Her fingers had been gripping that wheel too long. They dropped the biscuit, but retrieved it.
‘She’s four years old. She hasn’t lived,’ she said.
‘They’ll find her,’ Georgie said. ‘Drink your coffee. You’re as white as a ghost.’
Cara lifted the mug, sipped the sweet, strong brew. Her eyes scanned the watching faces: the lined, grey-headed woman clutching a basin of eggs; Margot, seated; Jenny, leaning against the sink; Georgie, standing at the table, close. Couldn’t meet their eyes so looked at the eggs. White, brown, speckled seeds of life. Some doomed to go rotten, some destined to grow into sturdy chickens, some broken into frying pans, some carrying their birthmark of dung that refused to wash off.
Who makes the decisions? Who had decided that Georgie should grow tall, straight; that Margot should grow wide?
She reached for another biscuit and dared a glance at the face of the woman who had given her life – standing, cigarette in one hand, coffee mug in the other – and knew she’d had no say in her fate. Born to become a bright-eyed golden songbird, she became entangled too early in the great net of life. Couldn’t break free to fly free and sing her songs, so she’d found another way to fly.
And Tracy’s fate. Had she been born to die before she’d lived?
She looked at her hands, at his rings, at Mrs Grenville’s rings. Couldn’t take them off if she’d wanted to. Had never wanted to take them off. Wanted biscuits, needed something solid inside her, needed that coffee and strength to find her baby.
She reached for another biscuit. ‘How far is the camp from town?’
‘Eight miles,’ Georgie said.
*
It was ten miles via road from Gertrude’s land – or it used to be ten miles. Schoolkids nowadays would quote the distance in kilometres. Gertrude’s fifteen acres of reclaimed bushland had always been two miles north-east of the post office, Monk’s eight miles north-west, and only one way to get from one to the other: take Forest Road to the fork, then make a right turn onto Three Pines Road then over t
he bridge.
If you owned a boat and were prepared to row it for many miles, the creek would offer an alternative route, but it snaked its way through the forest like a boa constrictor with a nest of fire ants in its belly.
There was a shorter route from Gertrude’s land to the post office for those on foot. As kids, Georgie and the younger bunch of Elsie’s kids had worn a path through Gertrude’s orchard to her rear boundary fence, where a climb between stretched wires, a diagonal walk through Joe Flanagan’s wood paddock, then corner to corner across his front paddock, brought them out on Stock Route Road, less than a mile from the post office.
Joe Flanagan had done what he could to stop the flow of traffic. For months on end, his bull had roamed the wood paddock. He’d set his dogs onto the trespassers, but the dogs learned to like trespassers who tossed them bones and sausages, oatmeal biscuits and even walnuts. Given the right whistle, Joe’s dogs would play their doggie games around the mad bull while Georgie and the Hall kids scrambled, laughing, between fencing wires.
Joe’s house, always screened by trees, was not visible from Gertrude’s land, or from the road. Back in the fifties, he’d fought for months against turning the old stock route into the main thoroughfare to Willama, claiming that he and his wife would be at risk from passing riffraff. You can’t fight progress. He’d lost. The new road had opened to traffic in ’52, and, to pacify Joe, the council had planted trees in the space between the road and his fence line.
Once they get their roots down, trees have a habit of growing, and a few don’t know when to stop. Blue gums and red, wattle, melaleuca and whatever else the wind had blown in during the past twenty-odd years had become a scrubby forest. Minutes before Cara had driven by Flanagan’s property, a two-toned Holden with its riffraff driver and passenger had nosed into a space between a melaleuca and a wattle, where its motor died.
They’d driven through to the commune at dawn. They had needs that kept bringing them back. Could get what they needed in Woody Creek and no questions asked. They had a bed in the rear room of a cabin built deep in Monk’s wood paddock. Two women and their five kids called the front rooms of that cabin home.
