Goose Girl

by Joy Dettman

  They were the right sort of Christmas decorations, better than fairy lights at the window. Big blowflies with gossamer wings and a huge one to replace the Christmas angel on top of the tree, she thought, that’s what we need. Get Christmas into its right perspective.

  As she fell across the bed, dust from the quilt rose, making her sneeze. Once. Twice. Ten times she sneezed, and she had to get up and shake the dust and dead insects from the quilt. Still she sneezed – until she found a crumpled handkerchief in the parka’s pocket and the stubs of theatre tickets. She blew her nose, then looked at the tickets, remembering the night she’d gone out with Sue, and Sue had told her she looked like a ten year old in her quilted pink parka.

  Sue and her pea-green hair, dyed to nark her parents and her grandfather at that mansion near Doncaster. Where was Ratsus today? How would she survive without her phones? And the black bikie from Number 14, what was he doing today? And Matt, where was he? Her eyes followed a gangly spider stalking its web in a dim corner, waiting to suck the juices from trespassing prey – it reminded her of Pimples, uncoordinated and slow.

  Tired. All of her juices had been sucked out. Brittle, insect in a web, trapped again, and after she’d flapped so hard to battle her way out. Somehow she’d have to find the right attitude. For Deb too. Deb would forgive her for forgetting the wedding if she said the right things, did the right things. Maybe Ross would return her car keys if she found the right attitude.

  He opened the door. ‘Use my room if you want to have a sleep. There are no sheets on this bed,’ he said.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks, Ross.’

  He found a blanket and covered her, then he brought her a late breakfast on a tray. She ate it to please him. She drank a cup of tea. Would have preferred coffee.

  So warm in the kitchen but freezing in this room. Rain was battering the tin roof. Boxing Day today. Summer. Cricket at the MCG. What a wash-out.

  Mind-travelling she lay there, listening to the wire door slam each time Ross entered, each time he went back out. She travelled back to five, then to eleven. She wandered the year of eighteen, then crept up on that year of eight and Daddy. A laughing man, his features blurred. She mind-slipped away from him to fourteen and Mrs Bertram.

  Strange, just to stop dead, to lie on a bed, the only action in her mind.

  Ross opened the door again at one. The odour of roast chicken followed him in.

  ‘Boo,’ she said as he leaned over the bed.

  ‘Have you been asleep?’ He kissed her brow.

  ‘Just thinking.’

  ‘You feel hot.’

  ‘Hot head, cold feet and no car keys.’

  ‘You need something to put you to sleep for a while. You’re probably in shock or something.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ve just lost your mother, that’s why.’

  She propped on an elbow and reached for the cigarettes in his shirt pocket. Lit up and blew smoke. ‘Lost is the wrong word. Lost means that something precious escaped through a hole in my pocket. What she did was to take something of mine and pitch it over Sleiman’s razor-wire fence so I couldn’t get it back. But she’s been doing it forever, so what’s new? My house, my photographs, my childhood, all tossed away.’

  It was the wrong thing to say. She could tell by his eyes. It didn’t matter. She wanted to say it, so she said it. ‘Have a look at the photos in her bag. They are all of her and Shane and Nicky. Two of little Robby, none of me. I thought there might be one of me.’

  ‘I’ll look later, love.’

  ‘I didn’t exist back then, Ross. Little Sally turned up one day in a high school photograph, at the age of fourteen. And do you know why?’ She didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Because your mother saw me, Ross. She brought me into existence. Do you know that when I was fourteen, I prayed that they wouldn’t let Mummy out of the nuthouse. Do you know that when she cut her wrists that time, I wondered how long it would take for the blood to run away?’

  ‘Stop it, Sally. Let your mother rest in peace.’

  ‘I didn’t have a mother. I just had Mummy.’

  He ran his hands across his scalp. ‘I’m going to give Sleiman a call,’ he said, and he left her, gave her space.

  ‘Whoops,’ she said. ‘You’ve blown your car keys now, Sall old gal.’

  She heard old Ron’s teeth click-click as Ross picked up the phone, hung up the phone. She heard him setting up a small electric heater and smelt burning dust as a warm breath of air wafted in. Feet in the direct path of the heater, she waited, counting the minutes until she heard the car – a maroon Volvo. He’d always driven a Volvo.

  Five more minutes passed before the sleaze entered the bedroom, his long top lip covering his beaky teeth. No smile today, not for the newly bereaved. As he approached the eastern side of the bed, she went west.

  ‘I’ll feel better if I know you’re okay. Let him check you over, love.’

  ‘I’ll feel better if he doesn’t, Ross,’ she said, and the white fingers knew they didn’t have a chance with her, so they delved into the bag, found and offered pills – little answers to life’s little problems.

  She looked at them. How many pills had she popped from those bubble packs? How many had she searched for in the carpet? Small poisonous mushrooms in a field of purple grass.

  Ross handed her a glass of water. She took it, sipped it. Not as good as Melbourne water. He popped two pills, and she looked at the tiny things, innocuous in that large, well-known hand. She didn’t need pills. She needed her car keys because she was Sally De Rooze, almost thirty, and she hadn’t made the kangaroo suddenly decide to hop across the road. It wasn’t her fault that the tailgate of the old station wagon was faulty either. Daddy always knew it was, that’s why he’d always locked it, and if Nicky hadn’t started howling, it would have been locked the night of the fire.

  Poor Ross. He looked so worried, like a lolloping great pup, kicked in the gut and not knowing what it had done to deserve it. His tongue out in a grimace, he scratched behind his ear.

  ‘Take them, Sally. They won’t hurt you. You’ve got to get some sleep.’

  She shook her head and it felt good, so she did it again. Once, twice, thrice she denied those pills – like what’s-his-name in the garden of Gethsemane, before the rooster crowed . . . or . . . or before the fake Christmas chicken burned. Then her hand reached out to accept her fate. Maybe they’d make Ross feel better.

  She rolled them on her palm. They looked larger than they had on Ross’s palm, and not so innocent. With a shrug she tossed them into her mouth and washed them down, wanting to be rid of these men who were stealing the heater’s warmth.

  She watched Ross’s eyes as she handed back the glass, and she saw the twin pills’ relief hit him immediately. Potent stuff. They dispensed tranquillity by proxy.

  ‘She’ll sleep now,’ Sleiman said as the two men walked back to the front door, and warmth returned to play on her face.

  Sleep might be nice, but what would she dream? Anyway, because they thought she’d sleep, she wasn’t going to, just to nark them. That’s what Sue would do. Have to get up, though. Have to get up and walk. In a minute she’d get up. When the sleaze left.

  She could hear them discussing her.

  ‘Give her one in the morning and one at night.’ She yawned. The voices were fading. ‘ . . . not strong . . . help her get through . . . take the edge off grief.’

  She yawned, warm now. Good old pink parka. Always warm. Feet warm beneath the blanket. She rolled onto her side, waiting to hear the Volvo motor, hear it drive away. Then she’d get up.

  She yawned and her eyes closed. Just for . . . just rest them . . . just for –

  Some Stranger

  Mrs Jenner was there with her batch of granddaughters. She always had them for the school holidays. Karen Matthews, her mother, her brother, and Jen Larkin from the department store were there. Deb and Greg had driven down. They’d forgiven her. Deb sat at Sally’s side, while the stranger in white s
poke about some stranger’s gentle mother, and of seeing through glass darkly.

  Sally was seeing through dark glasses darkly. They hid her eyes, dry now for five days and five nights. Dry, and tired with reading romance in Mrs Bertram’s bedroom. She’d found a carton of Mills and Boon beneath the bed, exactly what she’d needed.

  Six cars followed the hearse to the familiar cemetery. Ross held her hand as she walked by the three cherubs, but she waved to them, blew them a kiss, still wishing Superman had been standing watch over their grave.

  It didn’t matter. They were not in this graveyard. Not fat little Nicky. Not Robby the serious, or silly sausage Shane. It was just a place mark. Like Daddy’s grave. Just a place mark.

  The rain had gone but the sky was still grey. She had taken two pills before leaving Lakeside, they’d pickled her brain nicely, given her that stunned, newly bereaved look. She felt dazed, or drunk. Ross supported her, he held her until Mummy was safely in, on top of Daddy, like packing the china man and lady up for the next move.

  Rose petals were handed to her. She sprinkled a few and swayed again. The wind caught her rose petals. They fell where they would on the fake grass.

  Man, with his desire for immortality, had turned waste disposal into a religious experience. Like weddings, she thought. Big white statements, when love is black. Love hurts. Happily-ever-after love only happens in Mills and Boon. Happens over and over, only the names, place names and dates have been altered.

  People touched her arm, her hand, her shoulder, as they walked away. Mrs Jenner’s grandchildren had been promised McDonald’s if they were good. The funeral over, they wanted the pay-off.

  ‘We’ve been good, haven’t we, Nanny? We’ve been good.’ Happy little voices tinkling. New life amid the dead. They’d be the new century’s children.

  ‘My word, you have.’ Born to mother, Mrs Jenner now mothered her grandchildren. Lucky kids. And so good, sitting in the pew like little redheaded dolls, all dressed up for the party afterwards.

  ‘Stay in touch, dear.’ Mrs Jenner kissed Sally’s cheek, then took her brood off for McHappy packs, and Sally wanted some too. Wait for me. Wait for me. Take me with you to buy some laughter. I don’t want to be here.

  Deb and Greg left. Greg had to go to work, sole breadwinner now.

  ‘Oh, Sally, sweetie.’ Another hand touched her. ‘I’m sorry I’m so late, but I couldn’t get the car started and by the time the RACV man came . . . ’

  Sally looked up, and the sun was in her eyes and so was Carol Rigg, now Murphy. Carol the house thief, in her floral dress and navy blazer. Sally stared at the motormouth.

  ‘I saw it in the newspaper, sweetie. They did a bit of a story about your dad and brothers. I’ve tried to call you, but I kept getting your grandfather and he didn’t know what I was talking about. I’m so sorry.’

  Sally didn’t reply. Couldn’t say, that’s okay, no worries, not a problem, so she didn’t say anything, but she heard Ross say, ‘Grandfather?’

  ‘It sort of sounded like him, and I knew I had the right number. The first four digits are the same as Uncle Joe’s then 4579. I remembered it because it was Nan’s age. She’s seventy-nine.’

  ‘It’s 4597,’ Ross said.

  ‘I’m such a fool. I must have got it twisted. I’ve been dialling 4579 and driving some poor senile old man crazy.’

  Both now had their arms around Sally. Both so tall.

  ‘They’re together again. Try to think of it like that, sweetie.’

  Sally knew that. She’d wrapped them up in newspaper and packed them both away, and it said so in the newspaper: Resting together for all eternity. What could she say to Carol Rigg? Nothing. It didn’t matter. Carol’s mouth was still working.

  She looked at the moving mouth, looked from it to Ross’s mouth, and wished they’d both go away. But in Mrs Bertram’s Mills and Boon the newly bereaved were sent off to an old aunt, or a stern uncle. No uncle or aunt here today, a loyal ex-lover would have to do. She’d go home to the farm, be a good heroine. There was supposed to be another man in the story, some dark brooding guy who the heroine would end up with. Where was he hiding?

  Maybe Matt had looked in the deaths column. Maybe he’d come.

  A glance behind her, then to the left, to the right. No Matt. Maybe one of the gravediggers was dark and brooding. They’d be somewhere, waiting. She couldn’t spot them, but she saw a little leprechaun, seated on a toadstool, and while she stared at him he disappeared in a puff of smoke, went off to find the end of his rainbow.

  Fairy tales and Mills and Boon confused, Sall. Get it together. Keep it together. She shook her head. Had to stay away from fantasy today. Had to go home with the faithful ex-lover, have afternoon tea at the farm with all the people who’d only be coming because of Ross and a free feed.

  She needed a smoke, that’s what she needed. The gravediggers were probably having a smoke somewhere, but she couldn’t light up beside her parents’ grave. Not the done thing. She swayed forward. Back, against Carol Rigg. Carol’s arm supported her.

  ‘You’re right, sweetie. Lean on me if you want to. I’ve got you.’

  I’m leaning, she thought. I’m leaning on a motormouth house thief.

  ‘Come home with me for a while. It’s not far. We’ll have a coffee and talk it out.’

  ‘Want to go to Carol’s for a quick coffee, love?’

  What would they say in Mills and Boon? She couldn’t think, and couldn’t make her feet move anyhow. The pills had settled in her feet, tranquillised them so she couldn’t force them forward, or back, or had her high heels taken root in the fake grass?

  Maybe they’d go away if her heels were stuck, give her a few minutes in private with her mother so she could tell her that she knew why she’d had to do it before the thirty-first. It was on the tombstone: 1950–19–.

  ‘The millennium bug claims its first victim,’ she said, and Ross picked her up, he pulled her heel roots out of the grass and he was holding her close and it was raining. But the sun had just peeped out to shine a while.

  She understood why. And she knew that he understood too, and she knew now why he’d hated ‘Little Runaway Girl’.

  Poor Ross, he was making the rain. He was holding her so close, dripping tears all over her.

  And the rain from cloudless sky, are the tears I’ll ever cry,

  For I have no running shoes to tag along.

  So now it was time for the dark, brooding gravedigger to come out of hiding and get on with the story.

  Don’t look behind you, girl.

  Little runaway girl.

  The New Beginning

  January 2000

  The answer had been in the purse, plus four old fifty-dollar notes, bound with a perished rubber band and stuffed high into the hidden pocket. It was Mummy’s escape money, but she hadn’t used it.

  For weeks Glenda De Rooze had hoarded her pills, and from an unknown source added a few heart pills to her collection, and migraine pills; then, while Lakeside partied, she’d swallowed her grand cocktail. No-one to stop her game; Sally gone home to her motel bed. Dr Sleaze at his lake. Nurse too busy, thankful that the demanding one was not awake and leaning on her buzzer all night.

  Sally escaped back to Melbourne on the Friday morning. Weeks ago, Ross had offered his farm for a wild new century’s barbecue. Half of Lakeside was invited; he couldn’t cancel. He thought he understood why Sally didn’t want to be there.

  She’d called Sue five minutes after parking her tired little car in its bay – hadn’t told her about the funeral, though. She’d wanted Sue’s laughter, not her sympathy. They’d met at nine under the Flinders Street Station clock and partied with Melbourne, two small cells in the solid block of humanity moving on Southbank.

  It was eleven in the morning on the first day of January in the year 2000 when rain hunted them from the streets. They caught the tram to Sally’s flat and fell onto her bed, one each end, and they slept twelve hours straight, then ate breakfast t
wenty minutes before midnight – a feast of cornflakes.

  ‘It feels weird, doesn’t it?’

  ‘What? No men?’

  ‘2000. There’s still water in the pipes. The electricity is still on. The world was supposed to come to a stop at midnight.’

  ‘Yeah, the fucking cons. I was hoping the bank records would go into cyberspace and take my mortgage with them,’ Sue said. They laughed and had a glass of wine, and they had never drunk wine on top of cornflakes. It raised raucous laughter. Number 6 banged on his ceiling, and someone banged on the door. Sue wanted to open the door, invite the knocker in, but Sally told her it was probably the big, black bikie.

  ‘I’m not a racist,’ Sue said.

  On Sunday morning, the phone roused them too early. Only Ross. He didn’t talk long, but for a moment reality threatened. Sally took a don’t-care pill and Sue wanted to know what she was swallowing. She pinched the pack and stole a little unreality.

  They caught a tram to St Kilda in the late afternoon and they walked the esplanade, walked the pier, watching hopeful fishermen toss their lines into the barren waters of the year 2000. They had coffee on the footpath in Fitzroy Street, listening into clever conversations that had no reality. Then unreality wore off for Sue and she remembered she had a cat; she had to go home, feed it.

  The chill of winter had settled over Melbourne six months early. Maybe the big computer in the sky had been hit by the millennium bug and turned the seasons around. Sally’s heater rattled that night, guzzling electricity while she sat late before the television.

  On the third day of the new century she wandered into a music shop to look at guitars. Plenty of money in her purse. She had her refunds from Mummy’s dress and Matt’s dressing gown, and Mummy’s escape hoard, and Ross had refused her thousand dollars. He was going to sell the furniture when the auction rooms opened. She didn’t buy a guitar, too old now to pick up where she’d left off at sixteen.

  Wandering in the rain, walking, watching people, watching lovers holding hands, Sally the alien, the only one of her breed left to walk in a strange new century, had no hand to hold.